lf duffer. He
has his pet clubs and imagines he can play with no others. I think we
must agree with Nimms. If we do, the case looks serious again, for
Penrhyn would certainly not go away voluntarily unless it was to some
place where he could indulge in his mania."

"That's it!" says I. "Then he's been steered somewhere against his will.
That's the line! Which brings us back to Whitey Weeks. Who else but
Whitey would want him shunted off out of sight for a week or so?"

"But you don't think he would go so far as to kidnap Penrhyn, do you?"
asks Mr. Robert.

"Who, Whitey?" says I. "He'd kidnap his grandmother if he saw a front
page story in it. Maybe he'd had this disappearance stunt all worked up
when Mr. Deems balked. So he gets him when he's rigged up in some crazy
costume, with all his regular clothes at home, and tolls him off to some
out of the way spot. See? In that rig Penrhyn would have to stay put,
wouldn't he? Couldn't show himself among folks without being mobbed. So
he'd have to lay low until someone brought him a suit of clothes."

"That would be an ingenious way of doing it," admits Mr. Robert.

"Believe me, Whitey has that kind of a mind," says I, "or else he
wouldn't be handling the Alf. Shuman publicity work."

"But where could he have taken him?" asks Mr. Robert.

"We're just gettin' to that," says I. "Where would he? Now if this was a
movie play we was dopin' out it would be simple. He'd be taken off on a
yacht. But Whitey couldn't get the use of a yacht. He don't travel in
that class, and Shuman wouldn't stand for the charter price in an
expense bill. A lonesome farm would be a good spot. But Penrhyn could
borrow a rube outfit and escape from a farm. A lighthouse would be a
swell place to stow away a leading librettist dressed up in a fool's
costume, wouldn't it? Or an island? Say, I'll bet I've got it!"

"Eh?" says Mr. Robert.

"He's on an island," says I. "High Bar Island. It's a place where
Whitey goes duck shootin' every fall. He belongs to a club that owns it.
Anyway, he did. Used to feed me an earful about what a great gunner he
was, and what thrillin' times he had at the old shack. Down somewhere in
Barnegat Bay, back of the lighthouse. Yep! He's there, if he's
anywhere."

"Sounds rather unlikely," says Mr. Robert. "Still, you seem to have an
uncanny instinct for being right in such matters. Perhaps we ought to go
down and see. Come."

"What, now?" says I. "Right away?"

"There i