came upon a chisel wrapped in a
newspaper. I hid it, then, but I'll show it to you now. Maybe
it belongs to the shop, and if so I've no business with it. But,
if you don't recognize the chisel as yours, then I'll take it
up to the station house and turn it over to the chief."

"After all that stretch o' talk," smiled Driggs, "you ought to
show me a whole case full of chisels."

"I hid it over here," Curtis explained, going over to one of the
open sheds. "I tucked it in under this packing case. Here it
is, now, just where I left it. Do you recognize it as yours?"

From the newspaper wrapping Driggs took the small but keen-edged
implement. He regarded it curiously. Then he turned the paper
over slowly.

"Do you recognize it?" persisted the policeman.

"Mebbe," said Driggs. "I guess you can leave it here. But, in
case any question should come up about it in the future, suppose
you write your autograph on the handle of the chisel."

Driggs passed over his fountain pen, the policeman obligingly
obeying the request for his signature on the wood.

"Now, just for good measure, write your name across the top of
the newspaper, too," Driggs proposed. Curtis did so.

"You seem to attach a good deal of importance to this find," hinted
the policeman.

"Mebbe," assented Driggs indifferently. "Mebbe not. But you
and I will both know this paper and the chisel again, if we see
it, won't we?"

"We ought to," nodded the policeman. "But you don't consider
the matter as important enough, then, to interest the police?"

"I wouldn't think o' bothering the police force about a trifling
little matter like this," returned Driggs carelessly.

Just as soon, however, as the policeman had gone, Driggs darted
into his private office. There he took up the telephone receiver
and asked for Lawyer Ripley's residence number.

"Is Master Fred at home!" he inquired, when a servant of the Ripley
household answered the telephone. Fred was at home, the servant
replied, and then summoned Fred to the telephone.

"Well, who is it, and what is it?" asked Fred crossly.

"Hiram Driggs," responded the boat builder dryly. "That's 'who
is it.' As to 'what is it,' if you'll take a quick run over to
my office at the boatyard I'll tell you the rest of it."

"What on earth can you want to see me about?" Fred demanded.

Even over the wire, the note of dismay in Ripley's voice was plainly
evident to Driggs, who chuckled.

"I can't tel