"You didn't; eh? Well, we'll see what the courts think of giving wrong information to Uncle Sam with the intent to aid criminals. Let's see what he's got in his pockets."
The spy did not have much, but at a sight of one piece of paper Mr. Whitford uttered a cry of surprise.
"Ha! This is worth something!" he exclaimed. "It may be stale news, and it may be something for the future, but it's worth trying I wonder I didn't think of that before."
"What is it?" asked Tom.
For answer the custom officer held out a scrap of paper on which was written one word.
ST. REGIS.
"What does it mean," asked Ned, who, with Mr. Damon, had entered the motor room, and stood curiously regarding the scene.
"Bless my napkin ring!" said the odd man. "That's the name of a hotel. Do you suppose the smugglers are stopping there?"
"Hardly," replied Mr. Whitford with a smile.
"But St. Regis is the name of an Indian reservation in the upper part of New York state, right on the border, and in the corner where the St. Lawrence and the imaginary dividing line between New York and Canada join. I begin to see things
