the shed which, of late, had been such an object of worry and conjecture to the young inventor. What would he find there?
"Flash the light," he called to Mr. Damon in a hoarse whisper.
The eccentric man drew it from his pocket. He pressed the spring switch, and in an instant a brilliant shaft of radiance shot out, cutting the intense blackness like a knife. Mr. Damon flashed it on all sides.
But to the amazement of Tom and his companion, it did not illuminate the broad white wings and stretches of canvas of an aeroplane. It only shone on the bare walls of the shed, and on some piles of rubbish in the corners. Up and down, to right and left, shot the pencil of light.
"There's—there's nothing here!" gasped Tom.
"I—I guess you're right!" agreed Mr. Damon. "The shed is empty!"
"Then where is Andy Foger building his new plane?" asked Tom in a whisper; but Mr. Damon could not answer him.
