Part 2 (1/2)

After Chet's uncle had left, they walked quietly down the hall to the study. Frank knocked. A few seconds later a voice from within said, ”Come along.”

The boys entered, closed the doors, and found themselves in a high-ceilinged room with heavily draped windows. Bookshelves lined one wall behind a cluttered mahogany desk. The adjacent wall contained a blackboard.

As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Joe gave Frank a nudge. ”Look there!” he whispered.

Standing on a ha.s.sock was a small, gray-haired man in a white summer suit. He held a long pointer in one hand and was looking down at a fort structure of toy logs set up on the floor.

”Never! Never!” exclaimed the man as he collapsed the fort with a swish of the stick.

The trio watched, mouths agape. The man looked up quickly and said, ”h.e.l.lo, boys.”

”Mr. Davenport?” Chet said, nonplused.

”I am. And you are James Kenyon's nephew Chester, I believe, and the two Hardy boys! Much honored!” The man jumped down and shook each boy's hand, bowing slightly. He spoke in a pleasant Southern drawl, but his twinkling blue eyes revealed a lively personality.

”Have a seat,” Mr. Davenport said.

”We appreciate your invitation to Millwood,” Frank said as they settled in comfortable chairs.

”Poor strategy,” the art patron muttered. He threw open the draperies and paced the room.

”Pardon, sir?” Joe hesitated.

”Vicksburg, of course,” Mr. Davenport answered, frowning at the scattered toy logs. ”Yesterday was my annual Vicksburg Day.”

”Have you many military-er-holidays in the year, Mr. Davenport?” asked Chet.

”Fifty-seven, not a one more!” he replied. ”Used to have fifty-six till I admitted Bunker Hill this year. Sad days, many of 'em, but-”

Mr. Davenport paused. Suddenly he rushed over to the toy logs, reshuffled them into a fort, then stretched out on the floor, sighting along his pointer. Chet watched in bewilderment while the Hardys exchanged smiles. Indeed, Mr. Davenport was no ordinary person!

Seconds later, the millionaire leaped up. ”Terrible defense. It would never hold! Never!” Crouching, he squinted at the logs with his face almost to the floor. Holding the pointer like a cue, he again toppled the logs.

Seating himself in a rocker, the art patron sighed heavily, thumbed his woolen vest pockets, and peered earnestly at his callers. ”Now, what were you saying?”

Frank hastily told him about the scalp warning and the escaped museum thief. Upon hearing of the stolen Senandaga painting, the elderly man became upset and again paced the room.

”Could you tell us something about the Prisoner-Painter, Mr. Davenport?” Joe asked. ”And the fort, too?” At that instant Frank heard a faint sound and saw the double door of the study open a fraction of an inch!

”An eavesdropper!” he thought. Frank rushed across the room, but already footsteps were racing down the hallway. Grabbing the k.n.o.bs, he flung the doors wide open.

CHAPTER IV.

A Crimson Clue STUMBLING footsteps sounded at the bottom of the high porch, but by the time Frank dashed outside, the eavesdropper had vanished.

Disappointed, he returned to the others in the study. ”Whoever he was, he didn't drop any clues,” Frank reported.

”You're alert, boys,” Mr. Davenport commented. ”I like that. What's more, you're not afraid, like that custodian who guarded my fort.”

”Your fort?” Joe asked in surprise.

”Yes, young man, Senandaga belongs to me.”

”What happened to the custodian?” asked Frank.

”He left. Quit. Said he couldn't stand all that haunting-queer noises and so forth. To hear him talk, there's a whole regiment of ghosts manning the parapets.” Mr. Davenport looked thoughtful. ”Of course, he claims he had some close calls.”

”Such as?” Frank queried.

”Said chunks of masonry nearly fell on him a couple of times. But”-the art patron looked skeptical-”I don't put much stock in that.”

”Now n.o.body takes care of the fort?” Joe asked.

”n.o.body. And there aren't any pesky visitors, either,” Davenport said with satisfaction. ”Anyhow, we have enough to do tracking down the art thieves without worrying about the fort.”

Then the boys asked Mr. Davenport about his ancestor, the Prisoner-Painter.

”Jason Davenport was a great soldier,” he began. ”When hostilities broke out between the North and the South, he rose quickly to brigadier general. Then, in one rally near the Potomac, he broke the Union line but penetrated too far without logistical support and was captured. He was held prisoner for the duration at my fort.”

”A brave man,” Joe said. ”An ancestor to be proud of.”

”The fort is south of here on Crown Lake, isn't it?” Frank asked.

Mr. Davenport nodded, motioning toward the large window. ”If it weren't for the promontory nearby, you could see Senandaga.” He reflected. ”Jason Davenport died shortly after the war ended. But had he not been a prisoner there, there wouldn't be the seventeen canvases of Fort Senandaga, three of which,”

he added in a rueful tone, ”have been stolen.”

Mr. Davenport explained that the general had taken up painting to while away the days. He was a popular hero, well liked by his captors, and received many special favors, including the art materials necessary for his new interest.

”He showed a real genius in imagining different views of the fort from the surrounding countryside.”

”And that's why his paintings are valuable enough to tempt a thief?” Joe asked, impressed.

”I'd like to think so,” Mr. Davenport answered, ”but I fear that's not the real reason. You see, there were rumors later that Jason had discovered an old French treasure in the fort-and that he had left a clue to its hiding place. My father and uncle didn't believe it, but / did. So I bought the fort two years ago from a private party.”

”The general left this clue in a painting?” Chet guessed.

”Yes. Either in the picture itself, or the frame.” The art patron went on to explain that his forebear had fas.h.i.+oned a very unusual frame, which he used for all his paintings. ”The frames themselves are valuable,”

he said. ”Unfortunately, some of the originals have been lost over the years, so a few of the fort pictures in our gallery are conventionally framed.”

Joe asked how many of the general's works were in the school's possession.

”Fourteen.”

”Who has the others?”