"What's the lark, Bart?"
"No lark at all," answered Bart—"strictly business. Don't take a minute. No need disturbing the folks. You can be back inside of an hour."
Bob, hatless and without a collar, came sliding down the lightning rod two minutes later. Darry landed on the ground almost simultaneously, simply letting himself drop from the window sill.
"Two dollars apiece for half an hour's work," said Bart, and then told his companions the details of the special mission in which he required their services.
"Ginger! but you're nerve and action," commented the admiring Bob.
"And good to your friends," put in Darry.
They passed the pickle factory. It stood on the edge of the town, and the residence of the senior partner of Martin & Company, whose name had been mentioned in the telegram, was nearly half a mile further away.
"Eleven thirty-five," announced Bart, a trifle anxiously. "It does not give us much time. I hope there's no slip anywhere."
At just fifteen minutes of midnight the strange trio passed up the graveled walk leading to the Martin mansion. The front door had a ponderous old-fashioned knocker, and Bart plied it without ceremony.
He began to grow nervous as three minutes passed by, and not the least attention was paid to his summons.