The Secret of the Old Mill by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

across the way,” Frank suggested. “Someone there may know.”
    â€œAn old farmhouse?” the attendant repeated in answer to Frank’s query. “There’s one about a mile from here going toward Bayport. That might be the place your friend is staying. What does he look like?”
    Frank described Ken carefully. The attendant nodded. “Yep. I’ve seen him ride by here on his bike. A couple of times when I was going past the farm I noticed him turn in the dirt road to it.”
    â€œThanks a lot!” The Hardys cycled off quickly.
    Soon they were heading up the narrow, dusty lane, which led to a ramshackle, weather-beaten house. The brothers parked their motorcycles among the high weeds in front of it and dismounted.
    â€œThis place seems deserted!” Joe muttered.
    Frank agreed and looked around, perplexed. “Odd that Ken would be boarding in such a run-down house.”
    Frank and Joe walked onto the creaky porch and knocked at the sagging door. There was no answer. They knocked again and called. Still no response.
    â€œSome peculiar boardinghouse!” Joe said. “I wouldn’t want a room here!”
    Frank frowned. “This must be the wrong place. Look—it’s all locked up and there’s hardly any furniture.”
    â€œI’ll bet nobody lives in this house!” Joe burst out.
    â€œBut the attendant said he has seen Ken riding in here,” Frank declared. “Why?”
    â€œLet’s have a look,” Joe urged.
    Mystified, Frank and Joe circled the house. Since they were now certain it had been abandoned, they glanced in various windows. When Joe came to the kitchen he grabbed Frank’s arm excitedly.
    â€œSomebody is staying here! Could it be Ken?”
    Through the dusty glass the boys could see on a rickety table several open cans of food, a carton of milk, and a bowl.
    â€œMust be a tramp,” Frank guessed. “I’m sure Ken wouldn’t live here.”
    In turning away, the young detectives noticed a small stone structure about ten yards behind the house. It was the size of a one-car garage. Instead of windows, it had slits high in the walls.
    â€œIt probably was used to store farm equipment,” Frank said. “We might as well check.”
    They unbolted the old-fashioned, stout, wooden double doors. These swung outward, and the boys were surprised that the doors opened so silently. “As if they’d been oiled,” Frank said.
    â€œNo wonder!” Joe cried out. “Look!”
    Inside was a shabby green panel truck! “The same one we saw yesterday! Joe exclaimed. “What’s it doing here?”
    The boys noticed immediately that the vehicle had no license plates. “They probably were taken off,” Frank surmised, “and disposed of.”

    â€œWe’re prisoners!” Frank exclaimed
    Frank checked the glove compartment while Joe looked on the seat and under the cushion for any clue to the driver or owner of the vehicle. Suddenly he called out, “Hey! What’s going on?”
    Joe jumped from the truck and saw with astonishment that the garage doors were swinging shut. Together, the boys rushed forward but not in time. They heard the outside bolt being rammed into place.
    â€œWe’re prisoners!” Frank exclaimed.
    Again and again the Hardys threw their weight against the doors. This proved futile. Panting, Frank and Joe looked for a means of escape.
    â€œThose slits in the wall are too high and too narrow, anyway,” Frank said, chiding himself for not having been on guard.
    Finally he reached into the glove compartment and drew out an empty cigarette package he had noticed before. He pulled off the foil. Joe understood immediately what his brother had in mind. Frank lifted the truck’s hood and jammed the foil between the starting wires near the fuse box. “Worth a try,” he said. “Ignition key’s gone. If we can start the