rglar
he thought, he was prowling around the corridors of the office
structure.

Was it deserted? That was what he wanted to know. He knew the office
Morse had formerly occupied was two floors from the top. Tom descended
the staircase, trying to think up some excuse to offer, in case he met
the watchman or janitor. But he encountered no one. As he reached the
floor where he knew Morse and his gang were wont to assemble, he paused
and listened. At first he heard nothing, then, as the sound of the
storm became less he fancied he heard the murmur of voices.

"Suppose it should be some of them?" whispered Tom.

He went forward, pausing at almost every other step to listen. The
voices became louder. Tom was now nearly at the office, where Morse had
once had his quarters. Now he could see it, and his heart gave a great
thump as he noticed that the place was lighted. The lad could read the
name on the door. "Industrial Development Company." That was the name
of a fake concern headed by Morse. As our hero looked he saw the
shadows of two men thrown on the ground glass.

"Some one's in there!" he whispered to himself. He could now hear the
voices much plainer. They came from the room, but the lad could not
distinguish them as belonging to any of the gang with whom he had come
in contact, and who had escaped from jail.

The low murmur went on for several seconds.

The listener could make out no words. Suddenly the low, even mumble was
broken. Some one cried out "There's got to be a divvy soon. There's no
use letting Morse hold that whole seventy-five thousand any longer. I'm
going to get what's coming to me, or--"

"Hush!" some one else cried. "Be quiet!"

"No, I won't! I want my share. I've waited long enough. If I don't get
what's coming to me inside of a week, I'll go to Shagmon myself and
make Morse whack up. I helped on the job, and I want my money!"

"Will you be quiet?" pleaded another, and, at that instant Tom heard
some one's hand on the knob. The door opened a crack, letting out a
pencil of light. The men were evidently coming out. The young inventor
did not wait to hear more. He had a clue now, and, running on tiptoes,
he made his way to the staircase and out of the scuttle on the roof.

Chapter 21

On The Trail

"What's the matter, Tom?" asked Mr. Sharp, as the lad came hurrying
along the roof, having taken the precaution to fasten the scuttle door
as well as he could. "You seem excited." "So w