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disappeared around here.”

    Frank nodded.“Besides, Dad’s in Washington. We’ll still be near enough to give him a hand if he needs us on his spy case.”
    Strolling through the town, the boys came to the county historical museum. It was a single-story building with wings on either side.
    A sign on the front door proclaimed:
    WEATHER VANE EXHIBITION
    â€œLet’s go in,” Frank proposed. “It might give us an idea.”
    They were the only visitors. The curator came out of his office. He was a plump, jolly man in white ducks, white shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses, who introduced himself as Gaspard Clay. He had a habit of clearing his throat as he spoke.
    â€œSince you are the only ones here today, ahem, let me show you around,” he offered. “You can see the whole museum, except, ahem, for the west wing, which is closed to the public because it’s undergoing repairs.”
    â€œWe’d like to see the weather vane exhibit,” Joe informed him.
    â€œRight this way. It’s in the, ahem, east wing.”
    About a hundred weather vanes lined the walls of a large room or stood mounted on a long table. There were all sizes and shapes, some of wood, others of metal. Many portrayed animals, others formed stars, crescent moons, or sunbursts.
    Clay bustled around discoursing volubly on the importance of weather vanes. “In the days before radio and television, ahem, farmers depended on them to tell which way the wind was blowing. Then they could judge whether rain was coming. Of course,” he added with a smile, “weather vanes could not make long-range forecasts. But they were useful in foretelling the day’s weather.”
    Before the boys left the exhibit, Joe mentioned their robbery case. “Mr. Clay, do you know anything about the stolen weather vanes?”
    â€œOf course I know. I keep track of every weather vane in the county. Some of the pieces I remember best are gone.”
    â€œBut you have no idea who took them?”
    â€œNone. I suppose you have heard about, ahem, the Galloping Rider? It’s terrible to think of it being stolen.”
    â€œYes,” Frank agreed. “We’re investigating that theft and the others.”
    â€œWe saw the Galloping Rider at an auction!” Chet piped up and told about the incident.
    â€œWell, I hope you have better luck the next time,” said Gaspard Clay. “The man who took it ought to be in jail. If anyone tries to palm the Galloping Rider off on the museum, ahem, I’ll let you know.”
    â€œYou can reach us at the Hammerley farm,” Joe said.
    â€œAh yes, the barn with the Flashing Arrow. It’s a beautiful and very valuable antique.”
    â€œIt was heisted last night!” Chet blurted.
    Clay shook his head in dismay. “That’s too bad. It was the masterpiece of all weather vanes in the county.”
    â€œDoes Chesapeake Crossing mean anything to you?” Joe spoke up.
    The curator smiled. “It sure does!” he boomed.

9
    The Suspect
    Startled, the boys stared at him. They wondered if this was the breakthrough they were waiting for.
    â€œIt means the very best crabbing there is,” Clay went on jovially. “I go down to Chesapeake Crossing whenever I can. From there, you have two hundred miles of bay loaded with crab.”
    Again the Hardys felt disappointed. Only Chet was pleased by the curator’s remarks. The word crab gave him delicious visions of steamed crustaceans served for dinner.
    â€œThere’s a marina at Chesapeake Crossing,” Clay continued. “You can rent a boat and head for the coves and inlets where the crabs are. All you need is a net, ahem, to make a big catch. I usually steam some of them on the shore and bring the rest home. I have a wonderful recipe for crab if you’d like to hear it.”
    Chet’s eyes lit up, but Frank said hastily, “Not now, Mr. Clay. We have to get back to the