“It would be great if we could get a chance to do some work on this case ourselves. If Ganny Snackley is in this neighborhood and the government detectives don’t know of it, we would help dad land him.”
“It would be a great chance,” admitted Frank. “But I think we’ll find our friend Jones is a detective. That is, if we ever find out anything definite about him. Why else should Snackley and his men try to kill him? For there’s no doubt they left him for dead.”
“Perhaps he was another smuggler that they wanted to get rid of.”
“Maybe. But I think it’s most likely he is a Secret Service man.”
At length they arrived at the lane leading from the main road to the farmhouse. As their motorcycles roared down the drive they watched for some sign of life about the place. But there was no one in the orchard or in the barnyard. No one came out of the house. The place appeared to be deserted and, although it was a warm day, the doors were closed.
“This is queer,” remarked Frank, as they brought their motorcycles to a stop and left them in the shade of a large tree near the back of the house. “Mr. and Mrs. Kane couldn’t have gone away and left Jones there alone, could they?”
The boys went up to the door and rapped.
There was no answer.
“Try the front door,” Joe suggested.
After a number of futile efforts, they went to the front door of the farmhouse. But here, although they banged on the panels, there was likewise no response.