“Peters!” gasped Ned.  “I thought he was the fellow, Tom.”

“Yes, I know.  You were right, and I was wrong.  But I did not recognize his voice.  It was very hoarse.  He must have a bad cold.”  Later this was learned to have been the case.  “There’s no time to lose,” whispered Tom, while Mrs. Damon was doing her best to prolong the conversation in order to hold the man at the other end of the wire.  “Ned, get central on the other telephone, and see where this call came from.  Then we’ll get there as fast as the airship will take us.”

A second and temporary telephone line had been installed in the Damon home, and on this Ned was soon talking, while Tom, putting the photographic plate away for future use, rushed out to get his airship in shape for a quick flight.  He had modified his plans.  Instead of having a detective take a print of the photo telephone image, and make the arrest, Tom was going to try to capture Peters himself.  He believed he could do it.  One look at the wet plate was enough.  He knew Peters, though it upset some of his theories to learn that it was the promoter who was responsible for Mr. Damon’s disappearance.

The man at the other end of the wire was evidently getting impatient.  Possibly he suspected some trick.  “I’ve got to go now,” he called to Mrs. Damon.  “If I don’t get those papers in the morning it will be the worse for Mr. Damon.”

“Oh, I’ll send you the papers,” she said.

By this time Ned had gotten into communication with the manager of the central telephone exchange, and had learned the location of the instrument Peters was using.  It was about a mile from the one near the sawmill.

“Come on!” called Tom to his chum, as the latter gave him this information.  “The Firefly is tuned up for a hundred miles an hour!  We’ll be there in ten minutes!  We must catch him red-handed, if possible!”

“He’s gone!” gasped Mrs. Damon as she came to the outer door, and watched Tom and Ned taking their places in the airship, while Koku prepared to twirl the propellers.

“Gone!” echoed Tom, blankly.

“Yes, he hung up the receiver.”

“See if you can’t get him back,” suggested the young inventor.  “Ask Central to ring that number again.  We’ll be there in a jiffy.  Maybe he’ll come to the telephone again.  Or he may even call up his partners and tell them the game is working his way.  Try to get him back, Mrs. Damon.”

“I will,” she said.

And, as she hurried back to the instrument, Tom and Ned shot up toward the blue sky in an endeavor to capture the man at the other telephone.

“And to think it was Peters!” cried Tom into Ned’s ear, shouting to be heard above the roar of the motor exhaust.

“I thought he’d turn out to be mixed up in the affair,” said Ned.

“Well, you were right.  I was off, that time,” admitted Tom, as he guided his powerful craft above the trees.  “I was willing to admit that he had something to do with Mr. Damon’s financial trouble, but as for kidnapping him—­well, you never can tell.”