“Search the house!” ordered Mr. Whitford sharply.

“I’ll show you around,” offered Mr. Foger.

“We can find our way,” was the curt rejoinder of the chief agent.

“The place is deserted,” went on Mr. Foger.  “My son and I are just living here until certain repairs are made, when I am going to make another effort to sell it.”

“Yes, we knew it was being repaired, and that your son was staying here,” said Mr. Whitford, “But we did not expect to see you.”

“I—­er—­that is—­I came on unexpectedly,” said Mr. Foger.  “You may look about all you wish.  You will find nothing wrong here.”

And they did not, strange to say.  There was considerable litter in many of the rooms, and in one was Andy’s airship in parts.  Clearly work was being done on that, and Mr. Dillon’s story was confirmed, for tools, with his initials burned in the handles, were lying about.

The custom men, with Tom and Ned, went all over the house.  Andy scowled blackly at our hero, but said nothing.  Mr. Foger seemed anxious to show everything, and let the men go where they would.  Finally a tour of the house had been completed, and nothing of a suspicious nature was found.

“I guess we’ll just take a look at the roof, and see that airship platform your son is going to use,” said Mr. Whitford, in rather disappointed tones, when he had found nothing.

“It isn’t started yet,” said Andy.

But they all went up through a scuttle, nevertheless, and saw where some posts had been made fast to the roof, to provide a platform foundation.

“I’ll beat you all to pieces when I get flying,” said the bully to Tom, as they went down the scuttle again.

“I’m not in the racing game any more,” replied Tom coldly.  “Besides I only race with my friends.”

“Huh!  Afraid of getting beat!” sneered Andy.

“Well.  I guess there’s nothing here,” said Mr. Whitford to Mr. Foger, as they stood together in the front room.

“No, I knew you’d find nothing, and you have had your trouble for your pains.”

“Oh, Uncle Sam doesn’t mind trouble.”

“And you have caused me much annoyance!” said Mr. Foger sharply.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to cause you more,” was the agent’s comment.  “I want to have a look in the gardener’s house, from where Tom Swift saw the load going away.”

“There is nothing there!” declared Mr. Foger quickly.  “That is, nothing but some old furniture.  I sold a lot of it, and I suppose the man who bought it came for it to-night.”

“We’ll take a look,” repeated the agent, “I am very fond of old furniture.”

“Very well,” responded the bully’s father, as he eyed Tom and Ned blackly.

He led the way out of the house, and soon they stood before the small cottage.  It was dark, and when Mr. Foger unlocked the door he turned on the gas, and lighted it.

“I left the gas on until all the furniture should be taken out,” he explained.  “But you will find nothing here.”