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corner of the flimsy building was a door leading to a boat landing.
    â€œHe must have gone that way!” Frank said.
    He flung open the door and they rushed out onto the landing. A few feet away a tall, thin man wearing a tan jacket stood at the wheel of a speedboat.
    â€œIt’s Sweeper!” Frank exclaimed softly.
    The boys heard the sputtering roar of a motor, and the craft curved out into the bay. “Come on!” Frank cried, racing for the Sleuth. “We’ll follow himl”
    â€œGo ahead,” Joe yelled. “I’ll try to trace the owner of the motorcycle!”
    Frank shouted, “Okay!” A moment later the Sleuth sped away from the boathouse and roared in pursuit of the other craft.
    Joe went back to the shed and examined the motorcycle carefully. There was a leather pouch attached to the seat, but it contained only a pair of goggles and a few greasy rags.
    Then he noticed that the vehicle bore the familiar red-and-black license plate issued by an adjoining state.
    â€œWell, that’s something to go on!” Joe told himself. He memorized the number. “This is a clue Dad can help me track down,” he thought.
    Joe returned to the convertible and headed for home. He was pleased to find his father there, and told him of the new developments.
    Fenton Hardy telephoned the Motor Vehicle Bureau that had issued the motorcycle license plate. When he hung up, the detective told his son, “Looks as if you’d better check on a Timothy Kimball of Brookside.”
    â€œBrookside!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s just across the state line! I could drive there in an hour. Kimball might be the man in the speedboat—the one called Sweeper,” he added.
    â€œDon’t make too many rapid deductions, son,” his father cautioned. “Remember, the motorcycle may have been borrowed by a friend of Kimball —or it might even have been stolen.”
    Joe had to admit his father was right. “But I have no other lead to go on,” he pointed out.
    â€œFollow it up, certainly,” said the detective, “but I think it would be wise to find out all you can about Kimball before you see him. The facts will help you size him up.”
    Mr. Hardy thought a moment, then went on, “Barney Matson, the city editor of the Brookside News, is an old friend of mine. If anyone can give you information, he can. Here, I’ll write a little note to Barney.” The detective scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Give him my regards.”
    â€œThanks, Dad,” Joe said gratefully.
    Traffic was light, and Joe entered the office of the Brookside daily newspaper less than an hour later. The city editor sat alone at a long table. He beamed when Joe presented Fenton Hardy’s note and explained his mission.
    â€œYour dad was right. I can tell you some things about both Kimballs—father and son,” Mr. Matson said, inviting Joe to be seated next to him.
    The city editor said that the elder Kimball was president of a local construction firm. “He has a fairly solid reputation—personally and in his business. But his son—” The editor broke off and shook his head.
    â€œWhat’s the son’s name?” Joe asked.
    â€œTimothy Kimball Jr. He’s a handsome fellow, must be about thirty-one now. He’s a bad apple, although old Kimball seldom admits that.”
    The city editor went on to say that the son had been irresponsible in his school days, and had been accused of vandalism.
    â€œThe father always used his influence to get the boy out of jams. Later, young Kimball took up with some shady characters. The police have suspected him of several jobs in the last few years. But they never can pin anything on him.”
    Mr. Matson was interrupted by a man from the copy desk and said he would have to get back to work. Joe thanked the editor for his help, and asked for the address of the Kimball Company. As he