Part 5 (1/2)
CHAPTER VII.
An Angry Sculptor ”LISTEN!” Joe urged, as Frank and Chet joined him apprehensively at the lookout.
”What is it?” Chet asked.
Joe held up his hand for silence and they listened intently. Frank leaned far out in the direction of the mist-shrouded fort. The only sound was that of the wind through the trees.
Joe explained as they got back in the car. ”I'm positive it was drumbeats!” he said emphatically. ”It was coming from-the fort!”
A cold chill raced up Chet's spine. He shuddered. ”Y-you think Senandaga really is h-haunted?”
”It could have been the wind playing tricks,” Frank speculated. ”Personally, I think it was your stomach rumbling, Chet. Why didn't you tell us you were so hungry?”
The three broke into laughter, and drove back to Millwood, where they persuaded the kind-hearted cook to provide them with a snack.
The Hardys suggested they check the grounds before going to bed. The place seemed to be deserted.
Joe happened to glance over toward the moonlit gallery and noticed something move in the shadows. A man was crouched at the locked door!
”Somebody's trying to get into the gallery!”
The boys broke into a run across the lawn, but the man jumped up and tore into the woods.
”Fan out!” Frank yelled to Joe and Chet.
Separating, they crashed through the brush in pursuit. In the darkness ahead, they could hear pounding footsteps.
”This way!” Joe yelled, heading left toward the sound of a breaking twig.
”Where? I can't see a thing!” Chet stumbled into a fallen tree and groaned before following a shadow to his left. ”F-Frank-is that you?”
”Yes. Come on! Over here!”
Darting quickly from one tree trunk to the next, Frank plunged forward through bushes, then paused.
Hearing a branch snap, he rushed ahead to the left.
”He must have headed to the right!” Joe's voice rang out.
Squinting for a glimpse of the prowler, Frank jumped over some rocks and darted through a clearing. As he sprinted into an adjoining wooded patch, he collided with someone and went sprawling on the ground.
”Joe-it's you!”
”Frank!”
Presently they saw Chet's chunky shadow approach. ”Where did he go?” Chet panted, exhausted.
Kneeling and breathing heavily, they listened for a sign of the fugitive. But there was only silence throughout the woods.
”That guy's a phantom,” said Chet, mopping his forehead.
”One thing is certain,” Frank remarked. ”He knows the area well. Probably somebody local.”
”Wonder who he was,” Joe said as they hurried toward the gallery. ”He was tall-definitely not the thief we've already seen.”
The boys found that the gallery padlock had been tampered with, and hastily summoned Chet's uncle.
”We didn't get a good look at the man,” Frank reported, ”but this is definite proof there's more than one person after the fort treasure.”
He phoned headquarters, and soon an officer arrived on the scene. He dusted the door for prints, and made a search of the grounds near the gallery.
”No footprints,” he reported. ”Check with us in the morning.”
Afterward, the young sleuths and Uncle Jim got tools and worked by lantern light to reinforce the lock.
Frank and Joe also inserted a high-watt bulb into the unused socket over the door, then switched on the light. It was past midnight when they gathered up the tools.
Mr. Kenyon wiped his brow. ”This bright light may discourage intruders. This gallery wasn't designed to hold off thieves!”
Joe grinned. ”I hope we are.”
The next morning Chet was snoring contentedly when the Hardys finished dressing. Strong tugs at his legs awakened him.
”Come on,” Joe urged. ”Up and at 'em! You're four hours behind the birds!”
The heavy youth grumbled and burrowed deeper into his covers.
”Breakfast is ready!” Joe shouted.
Covers flew up and Chet landed squarely on the floor with two feet.
After eating, the trio went directly to the gallery. This time no one interfered. They found the remaining fort paintings were as varied in style as they were in views of the impressive fortress.
Several were painted as if from the middle of Crown Lake; others as if from a nearby mountain.
Some were night scenes, others broad daylight. Green and brown colors stood out boldly, and lighting effects were worked with fine brush strokes upon the fort's stone ledges.
All the paintings were signed with an interlaced J and D.
”As I see it,” Frank observed, ”there's a choice of ways in which a painter could leave a clue on canvas.”
”Or in the frame,” Chet added.
Frank nodded. ”But I think the paintings themselves are the best bet. The clue could be a tiny word in a corner or even a symbol. Or”-he pointed to one picture-”it might be where a figure is standing-this Union soldier for instance.”