up the steps of the side porch, his wheel bumping along ahead of
him, a door was thrown open.

"Why, it's Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Baggert. "Whatever happened to you?"
and she hurried forward with kindly solicitude, for the housekeeper
was almost a second mother to the youth.

"Chain broke," answered the lad laconically. "Where's dad?"

"Out in the shop, working at his latest invention, I expect. But are
you hurt?"

"Oh, no. I fell easily. The mud was like a feather-bed, you know,
except that it isn't so good for the clothes," and the young
inventor looked down at his splashed and bedraggled garments.

Mr. Swift was very much surprised when Tom told him of the happening
on the road, and related the conversation and the subsequent alarm
of the man on learning Tom's identity.

"Who do you suppose he could have been?" asked Tom, when he had
finished.

"I am pretty certain he was one of that crowd of financiers of whom
Anson Morse seems to be a representative," said Mr. Swift. "Are you
sure the man was one of those you saw in the restaurant?"

"Positive. I had a good look at him both times. Do you think he
imagined he could come here and get possession of some of your
secrets?"