Quickly he put up his hands to his head.  There appeared to be nothing the matter with it, save that there was quite a lump on the back, where the club had struck.

“I seem to be all here,” went on Tom, much mystified.  “But where am I?  That’s the question.  It’s a funny hospital, so cold and dark—­”

Just then his hands came in contact with the cold ground on which he was lying.

“Why, I’m outdoors!” he exclaimed.  Then in a flash it all came back to him—­how he had gone to wait under the church shed until the rain was over.

“I fell asleep, and now it’s night,” the youth went on.  “No wonder I am sore and stiff.  And that chloroform—­” He could not account for that, and he paused, puzzled once more.  Then he struggled to a sitting position.  His head was strangely dizzy, but he persisted, and got to his feet.  He could see nothing, and groped around In the dark, until he thought to strike a match.  Fortunately he had a number in his pocket.  As the little flame flared up Tom started in surprise.

“This isn’t the church shed!” he exclaimed.  “It’s much smaller!  I’m in a different place!  Great Scott! but what has happened to me?”

The match burned Tom’s fingers and he dropped it.  The darkness closed in once more, but Tom was used to it by this time, and looking ahead of him he could make out that the shed was an open one, similar to the one where he had taken shelter.  He could see the sky studded with stars, and could feel the cold night wind blowing in.

“My motor-cycle!” he exclaimed in alarm.  “The model of dad’s invention—­the papers!”

Our hero thrust his hand into his pocket.  The papers were gone!  Hurriedly he lighted another match.  It took but an instant to glance rapidly about the small shed.  His machine was not in sight!

Tom felt his heart sink.  After all his precautions he had been robbed.  The precious model was gone, and it had been his proposition to take it to Albany in this manner.  What would his father say?

The lad lighted match after match, and made a rapid tour of the shed.  The motor-cycle was not to be seen.  But what puzzled Tom more than anything else was how he had been brought from the church shed to the one where he had awakened from his stupor.

“Let me try to think,” said the boy, speaking aloud, for it seemed to help him.  “The last I remember is seeing that automobile, with those mysterious men in, approaching.  Then it disappeared in the rain.  I thought I heard it again, but I couldn’t see it.  I was sitting on the log, and—­and—­well, that’s all I can remember.  I wonder if those men—­”

The young inventor paused.  Like a flash it came to him that the men were responsible for his predicament.  They had somehow made him insensible, stolen his motor-cycle, the papers and the model, and then brought him to this place, wherever it was.  Tom was a shrewd reasoner, and he soon evolved a theory which he afterward learned was the correct one.  He reasoned out almost every step in the crime of which he was the victim, and at last came to the conclusion that the men had stolen up behind the shed and attacked him.