“There’s no doubt of it,” said Ned, staring at the bottle in his hand. “They come across from Canada and locate the caved-in end of the mine by means of the ranges and that buoy. Once anchored there, they can lower these cases of whisky onto the dump-car that is waiting down below. They don’t have to land and leave tracks on the beach. It’s so simple we ought to have guessed it long ago!”
“And once they get the stuff safely stowed here, all they have to do is watch their chance to load a truck and run it up to Cleveland,” remarked Beals. “Like every other bunch of crooks and lawbreakers, they thought their scheme was one hundred per cent perfect.”
“Well, I guess it was working pretty fair till we butted in with our dance proposition,” grinned Dave Wilbur. “It’s no wonder they tried to drive us off the place.”
“Of course, we know they ran their truck up through the old wood-road and parked it among the scrub oaks opposite the end of the house,” began Dick. “Ned and I found where it stood but—but still there’s one thing that puzzles me.”
“You’re wondering why we never could find any tracks on the strip of sand between the house and the woods,” guessed Ned. “That question bothers me also. Let’s have another look inside the cellar.”
Leading the way with his lantern and closely followed by the other boys, Ned mounted the stairs. At the top he halted abruptly and held the lantern above his head. “Who was the last man in here?” he demanded.
“I was,” replied Charlie Rogers.
“Did you shut this door behind you?” Ned’s tone was sharp.
“I certainly did not!” protested Rogers. “It was wide open and I remember pushing it clear back against the wall in order to give us a chance to beat it out of here if anything happened!”
Handing his lantern to Dick Somers, Ned approached the door and tried it cautiously; then putting his shoulder against it he pushed with all his strength. “Come here, Fatty,” he grunted. “Put your beef on it!”