"Yes," exclaimed Roy eagerly. "Have you any suspicions as to who did it?"
The man shook his head.
"As yet we have no clews," he declared, "and I don't think we'll get any."
"That's too bad," replied Roy, "but let me tell you something that may help you."
The lad launched into a description of their adventures of the morning.
"That hut belongs to Luke Higgins, a respectable man who is out West at present," said the detective when Roy had finished. "He uses it as a sort of hunting box in the rabbit shooting season. He couldn't have had anything to do with it."
"I'd like to know his address so that I could write and thank him for leaving that gun there," declared Peggy warmly.
The detective shook his head solemnly.
"I reckon you young folks had better stop skee-daddling round the country this way," he said with heavy conviction; "you'll only get into more trouble. Flying ain't natural no more than crowing hens is."
With this he picked up his hat, and, after assuring them that he would find a clew within a short time, he departed, leaving behind him a company in which amusement mingled with indignation. In fact, so angry was Roy over the stupidity or ignorance of the Meadville police, that he himself set out on a hunt to detect the authors of the outrages upon the young aviators.