Bart shrugged his shoulders, but he was consciously uneasy.

“What did you tell her, Darry?” he inquired.

“I put on all the official dignity I could assume, but was very polite all the time, informed her that mislaid, delayed and irregular express matter were common occurrences, that the company was responsible for its contracts, counted you one of its most reliable agents, and assured her that very possibly within twenty-four hours she would find her trunk delivered safe and sound at its destination.”

“Good for you!” laughed Bart.  “Keep an eye on things.  I’ll show up, or wire, by night.”

“Any clew, Bart?”

“I think so.”

Bart went straight to the home of Professor Abner Cunningham.

That venerable gentleman—­antiquarian, scientist and profound scholar—­had a queer little place at the edge of the town where he raised wonderful bees, and grew freak squashes inside glass molds in every grotesque shape imaginable.

He was a friend to all the boys in town, and Bart joined him without ceremony as he found him out on the lawn in his skull cap and dressing gown, studying a hornets’ nest with a magnifying glass.

“Ah, young Bartley—­or Bartholomew, is it?” smiled the innocent-faced old scientist jovially.  “I have a new volume on nomenclature that gives quite an interesting chapter on the Bartholomew subject.  It takes you back to the eleventh century, in France—­”

“Professor, excuse me,” interrupted Bart gracefully, “but something very vital to the twentieth century is calling for urgent attention, and I wanted to ask you a question or two.”

“Surely.  Glad to tell you anything,” assured the professor, happiest always when he was talking, and willing to talk for hours with anyone who would listen to him.  “Come into the library.”

“I really haven’t the time, Professor,” said Bart.  “Please let me ask if you had charge of getting up that directory of the county that a city firm published?”

“Two years ago? yes,” nodded the professor assentingly.  “It was quite a pleasant and profitable task.  I believe I saw about every resident in the county in preparing that directory.”

“I am going to ask you a foolish question, perhaps, Professor,” continued Bart, “for an accurate person like you of course took down only correct names, and not nicknames.  Here is the gist of it, then.  I am looking for two men, and I know only that they live outside of Pleasantville, and call themselves Buck and Hank.”

“Well! well! well!” muttered Professor Cunningham in a musing tone.  “Hank, proper name Henry; Buck, proper name Buckingham—­hold on, I’ve got it!  Come in!” insisted the professor animatedly.  “Oh, you haven’t time?  Buckingham?  Sure thing!  Wait here, just a minute.”

The professor rushed into the house, and in about two minutes came rushing out again.

He had an open book in his hand, and stumbled over flower beds and walks recklessly as he consulted it on the run, spilling out some loose papers it contained, and leaving a white trail behind him.