“I’m glad of it,” laughed Tom, and he saw that his friend was in a better state of mind, as his “blessings” showed.

Tom remained for a little longer, talking to Mr. Damon, and then took his leave, flying back home in the airship.

“Gen’man t’ see yo’, Massa Tom,” announced Eradicate, as he helped Tom wheel the monoplane back into the shed.

“Is that so, Rad?  Where is he?”

“Settin’ in th’ library.  Yo’ father am out, so I asted him in dere.”

“That’s right, Rad.  Who is he, do you know?”

“No, sah, Massa Tom, I doan’t.  He shore does use a pow’ful nice perfume on his pocket hanky, though.  Yum-yum!”

“Perfume!” exclaimed Tom, his mind going back to the day he had had the trouble with Mr. Peters.  “Is he a big, red-faced man, Rad?”

“No, sah, Massa Tom.  He’s a white-faced, skinny man.”

“Then it can’t be Peters,” mused Tom.  “I guess perhaps it’s that lawyer I wrote to about bringing suit to get back what it cost me to have the Kilo fixed.  I’ll see him at once.  Oh, by the way, it isn’t Mr. Grant Halling; is it?  The gentleman who got tangled up in our aerials with his airship?  Is it he?”

“No, sah, Massa Tom.  ’Tain’t him.”

“I thought perhaps he had gotten into more trouble,” mused Tom, as he took off his airship “togs,” and started for the house.  For Mr. Halling had called for his repaired airship some time ago, and had promised to pay Tom another and more conventional visit, some future day.

Tom did not know the visitor whom he greeted in the library a little later.  The man, as Eradicate had said, was rather pale of face, and certainly he was not very fleshy.

“Mr. Tom Swift, I think?” said the man, rising and holding out his hand.

“That’s my name.  I don’t believe I know you, though.”

“No, I haven’t your reputation,” said the man, with a laugh that Tom did not like.  “We can’t all be great inventors like you,” and, somehow, Tom liked the man less than before, for he detected an undertone of sneering patronage in the words.  Tom disliked praise, and he felt that this was not sincere.

“I have called on a little matter of business,” went on the man.  “My name is Harrison Boylan, and I represent Mr. Shallock Peters.”

Instinctively Tom stiffened.  Receiving a call from a representative of the man against whom Mr. Damon had warned him only a short time before was a strange coincidence, Tom thought.

“You had some little accident, when your motor boat and that of Mr. Peters collided, a brief time ago; did you not?” went on Mr. Boylan.

“I did,” said Tom, and, as he motioned the caller to be seated Tom saw, with a start, that some of the drawings of his photo telephone were lying on a desk in plain sight.  They were within easy reach of the man, and Tom thought the sheets looked as though they had been recently handled.  They were not in the orderly array Tom had made of them before going out.