the tennis-court, joined her brother Roy at the picket fence. The lad,
bronzed and toughened by his trip to the Nevada desert, was leaning upon
the paling, gazing down the dusty road.

About a quarter of a mile away was the object of his contemplation--a big,
new structure, painted a staring red. It had no windows, but in front
were great sliding doors. On its flat roof the forms of a dozen or more
glazed skylights upreared themselves jauntily.

"No, it's a work-shop of some sort. But what? Old man Harding is
interested in it, that's one thing sure. I heard, too, that while we were
away, cases of machinery had arrived and been delivered there, and that
active work of some sort had been going forward ever since," rejoined Roy,
who was clad in white tennis flannels, with white shoes and an outing
shirt, set off by a dark-red necktie.

"See Roy," cried Peggy suddenly, "they're putting up some sort of sign on
it, or else I'm very much mistaken."

"So they are. I see men on some ladders, and now, look Peg, they are
carrying up a big board with something painted on it. Perhaps at last the
mystery will be solved, as they say in the dime novels."

"Can you read the printing on that sign?" inquired Peggy.

"Not a word. I can see the letters to know that they are printed
characters, but that's all. Tell you what, Peg, just run and get those
glasses we used on the desert--there's a good fellow--and we'll soon find
out."