dusk, the crowd cheering lustily. Then, with her nose pointed toward
the St. Lawrence, the Falcon was on her way to do a night patrol,
and, if possible, detect the smugglers.

It was monotonous work, and unprofitable, for, though Tom sent the
airship back and forth for many miles along the wonderful river that
formed the path from the Great Lakes to the sea, he had no glimpse
of ghostly wings of other aircraft, nor did he hear the beat of
propellers, nor the throb of motors, as his own noiseless airship
cruised along.

It came on to rain after midnight, and a mist crept down from the
clouds, so that even with the great searchlight flashing its
powerful beams, it was difficult to see for any great distance.

"Better give it up, I guess," suggested Mr. Whitford toward morning,
when they had covered many miles, and had turned back toward
Logansville.

"All right," agreed Tom. "But we'll try it again to-morrow night."

He dropped his craft at the anchorage he had selected in the gray
dawn of the morning. All on board were tired and sleepy. Ned,
looking from a window of the cabin, as the Falcon came to a stop,
saw something white on the ground.

"I wonder what that is?" he said as he hurried out to pick it up. It
was a large white envelope, addressed to Tom Swift, and the name was
in printed characters.

"Somebody who wants to disguise their writing," remarked Tom, as he
tore it open. A look of surprise came over his face.

"Look here! Mr. Whitford," he cried. "This is the work of the
smugglers all right!"

For, staring at Tom, in big printed letters, on a white sheet of
paper, was this message:

"If you know what is good for you, Tom Swift, you had better clear
out. If you don't your airship will burned, and you may get hurt.
We'll burn you in mid-air. Beware and quit. You can't catch us."

"THE COMMITTEE OF THREE."

"Ha! Warned away!" cried Tom. "Well, it will take more than this to
make me give up!" and he crumpled the anonymous warning in his hand.

CHAPTER XIII

KOKU SAVES THE LIGHT

"Don't do that!" cried Mr. Whitford.

"What?" asked Tom, in some surprise.

"Don't destroy that letter. It may give us a clew. Let me have it.
I'll put a man at work on that end of this game."

"Bless my checkerboard!" cried Mr. Damon. "This game has so many
ends that you don't know where to begin to play it."

The government man smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper, and
looked at it carefully, and also