“Sorry, son,” Smith said apologetically.  “Guess I should have warned ye.”

Bud chuckled good-naturedly.  “It’s all right,” he said.  “It was my own fault for not watching where I was going.  Besides, you can’t blame an American for not liking the idea of having his home searched.”

The old man chuckled too and flashed a wary eye at the trooper.  “I’ll go get ye a towel to dry off with,” he told Bud.

Meanwhile, Tom was investigating a house down the road with another state trooper.  The owner, a paunchy unshaven bachelor named Pete Latty, and his seventeen-year-old nephew accompanied them to the basement.

A naked light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, revealed an ancient furnace, and an accumulation of junk.  Most of it was covered with dust, but Tom noticed a large packing crate that looked as if it had been freshly moved.  He walked over and began to shove the heavy box aside.

“What’re you doing?” Latty asked gruffly.

“I want to look underneath,” Tom replied.  A second later his eyes widened as he saw a trap door, evidently leading to a subcellar.

Tom beckoned his partner over and showed his discovery.  “Where does this lead to?” the trooper asked, turning back to Latty.

“Just a little storage place,” the owner replied with a shrug.  “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.  You’d better not go down there,” he added hastily.  “The steps ain’t safe.”

“Just the same, we’ll take a look,” the trooper said.

“Then do it at your own risk!” Latty snapped.

The officer pulled up the trap door and Tom shone a light down.  The shallow dirt-walled room below was about six feet square.  On the floor, at the foot of a short rickety ladder, lay a large bundle wrapped in a tarpaulin.

Tom descended the ladder cautiously and opened the tarpaulin to see what was inside.  The contents made him gasp—­a large, well-oiled collection of rifles and pistols!

Looking up, Tom saw both the state trooper and Latty peering down at him—­the trooper openmouthed with surprise, Latty scowling nervously.

“Don’t touch ’em!” Latty warned.  “Some are loaded.  I keep ’em hidden for safety, but sometimes my nephew Fred here and I have target practice.”

Just then Tom’s keen eyes spotted a slip of paper tucked among the guns.  He pulled it out.  His heart gave a leap of excitement as he saw two words written on the paper—­Samson Narko!

Hiding his amazement, Tom read the name aloud and added casually, “What’s this?  The make of one of the guns?”

“Uh, yeah—­that’s right,” the man replied.

Without comment, Tom climbed out of the subcellar.  As he bent down to drop the trap door, Tom flashed the officer a signal.  Instantly the trooper grabbed Latty.

“Hey!  Why the rough stuff?” the prisoner exclaimed.  Then, as he realized the officer was about to handcuff him, the man’s face turned pasty white.  He pulled free from the trooper’s grasp and bolted toward the stairway.  His nephew stood as if paralyzed at the sudden turn of events.