“And now,” said Tom, when he had safely put away the wax record, containing the incriminating talk of Peters, and had printed several photographs, so wonderfully taken over the wire, “now to get on the trail again.”

It was not an easy one to follow.  Tom began at the deserted home of the alleged financier.  The establishment was broken up, for many tradesmen came with bills that had not been paid, and some of them levied on what little personal property there was to satisfy their claims.  The servants left, sorrowful enough over their missing wages.  The place was closed up under the sheriff’s orders.

But of Peters and his men not a trace could be found.  Tom and Ned traveled all over the surrounding country, looking for clues, but in vain.  They made several trips in the airship, but finally decided that an automobile was more practical for their work, and kept to that.

They did find some traces of Peters.  As Tom had said, the man was too prominent not to be noticed.  He might have disguised himself, though it seemed that the promoter was a proud man, and liked to be seen in flashy clothes, a silk hat, and with a buttonhole bouquet.

This made it easy to get the first trace of him.  He had been seen to take a train at the Shopton station, though he had not bought a ticket.  The promoter had paid his fare to Branchford, a junction point, but there all trace of him was lost.  It was not even certain that he went there.

“He may have done that to throw us off,” said Tom.  “Just because he paid his way to Branchford, doesn’t say he went there.  He may have gotten off at the next station beyond Shopton.”

“Do you think he’s still lingering around here?” asked Ned.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” was Tom’s answer.  “He knows that there is still some of the Damon property left, and he is probably hungry for that.  We’ll get him yet, Ned.”

But at the end of several days Tom’s hopes did not seem in a fair way to be realized.  He and Ned followed one useless clue after another.  All the trails seemed blind ones.  But Tom never gave up.

He was devoting all his time now to the finding of his friend Mr. Damon, and to the recovery of his fortune.  In fact the latter was not so important to Tom as was the former.  For Mrs. Damon was on the verge of a nervous collapse on account of the absence of her husband.

“If I could only have some word from him, Tom!” she cried, helplessly.

To Tom the matter was very puzzling.  It seemed utterly impossible that Mr. Damon could be kept so close a prisoner that he could not manage to get some word to his friends.  It was not as if he was a child.  He was a man of more than ordinary abilities.  Surely he might find a way to outwit his enemies.

But the days passed, and no word came.  A number of detectives had been employed, but they were no more successful than Tom.  The latter had given up his inventive work, for the time being, to devote all his time to the solution of the mystery.