"Where is your son, Tom?" asked the head of the Shopton police force, sharply.
"What do you want with him?" inquired the inventor, struck by some strange tone in the other's voice.
"Mr. Swift," went on the chief, solemnly, "I said we came upon a very painful errand. It is painful, as I have known Tom since he was a little lad. But I must do my duty, no matter how painful it is. I have a warrant for the arrest of your son, Thomas Swift, and I have come to serve it. I need not tell you that it is your duty to give him up to us—the representatives of the law. I call upon you to produce your son."
Mr. Swift staggered to his feet.
"My son! You have come to arrest my son?" he stammered.
The chief nodded grimly.
"Upon what charge?" faltered the father.
"On a charge of breaking into the Shopton National Bank last night, and stealing from the vault seventy-five thousand dollars in currency!"
"Seventy-five thousand dollars! Tom accused of robbing the bank!" faltered Mr. Swift.
"That is the charge, and we've come to arrest him," broke in Constable Higby.