Larry remembered the barred window. “Was there ever a nursery at Milton House?” he said. “Were there young children?”

“Oh no. The young ladies were in their twenties when they came,” said Sims. “There weren’t never no children. Never have been children there.”

“Who came after the Duncans?” asked Daisy, wondering if the Smiths could have come then.

“Oh, it was taken by a Miss Kennedy who ran it as a kind of boarding-house,” said Sims. “But that were a failure. Only lasted two years. Since then it’s been empty. I did hear as some one had bought it - but they’ve not moved in. I never take no letters there.”

“And nobody of the name of Smith ever lived there?” said Daisy, puzzled.

“You seem set on the Smiths, whoever they be!” said old Sims, straightening himself up to go. “Maybe you’re thinking of old General Smith, him as lived in Clinton House!”

“I dare say we are,” said Larry. “Well, Sims, I think your memory is wonderful. You tell your wife we tried to catch you out and couldn’t!”

Sims grinned and went trudging on up the hill. Larry and Daisy looked at one another.

“Well - what do you think of that!” said Larry. “Mr. John Henry Smith told a pack of the most awful lies to get that house! Whoever is he, and what’s his little game?”

When Larry went down to Pip’s to meet the others, his news caused a good deal of surprise.

“You did jolly well to think of asking old Sims,” said Fatty warmly. “A very good idea - worthy even of that great detective, Sherlock Holmes.”

This was indeed high praise from Patty, but honesty made Larry admit that it was Daisy who had given him the idea.

“Still, it was well carried out,” said Fatty. “But I say - things are curiouser and curiouser, as Alice in Wonderland would say. I did think, when I heard the name, that John Henry Smith sounded a little bit too ordinary - the sort of name people take when they don’t want to be found out in anything.”

“Fancy! All that tale about his mother living there was made up,” said Bets. “I wonder why he wanted that particular house so badly. Does he use that secret room, do you think?”

“Don’t know,” said Fatty. “We’ve certainly got hold of a queer mystery. We shall have to find out who John Henry Smith is.”

The others stared at him, and little shivers went down Bet’s back. To her John Henry Smith seemed to be a queer and rather frightening person. She didn’t think she particularly wanted to meet him.

“We - we can’t go to Limmering,” she said, in a small voice.

“No. I told you before - we can telephone,” said Patty. “What was the number now, Pip? Limmering 021?”

“Yes,” said Pip. “You telephone, Fatty. This is rather important. If any one is going to speak to John Henry Smith himself, it had better be you.”

“All right,” said Fatty, looking important. “I’ll go down to the call-box and phone from there. If your mother hears me phoning from your house here, Pip, she may want to know what it’s all about.”

“Yes, she would.” said Pip. “You go on down to the call-box. Buster can stay here because of his bad leg.”

“Woof!” said Buster pathetically. He was very funny that day, because whenever he wanted a little fussing, he got up and limped badly, which made all the children very sorry for him. Actually his healthy little leg was healing fast, and did not even need a bandage on it. But Buster was going to make the most of it whilst it lasted!

All the same, he went with Fatty. He wasn’t going to be left behind, if his master was going anywhere. So, limping badly, he followed Fatty down to the call-box.

Fatty felt rather excited. John Henry Smith was the key to the mystery - and he was just about to talk to him!

He put the receiver to his ear and asked for the number he wanted.

A voice told him what money to put into the slot. He pressed it in, and then listened for an answer, his heart beating rather fast.

Then he heard a voice at the other end: “Hallo!”

“Oh - hallo!” said Fatty. “Does a Mr. John Henry Smith live there, please?”

There was a silence. Then the voice said cautiously, “What number do you want?”

Fatty repeated the number.

“Who told you that you could get Mr. Smith at this number?” said the voice. “Who are you?”

Fatty made up a name out of his head. “This is Donald Duckleby,” he said.

There was another astonished silence. “What name did you say?” said the voice at last.

“Could you tell me if Mr. Smith still lives at Limmering, or if he has moved to Peterswood?” said Fatty, deciding on boldness. He knew quite well that John Henry Smith had not moved to Peterswood, but there would be no harm in giving him a shock.

There was another silence. This time it was so long that Fatty spoke again, “Hallo! Hallo!”

But there was no reply. The person at the other end replaced the receiver. Fatty put his down too and thought hard.

He hadn’t learnt much! He didn’t even know if the man he had spoken to was John Henry Smith or not! It was most unsatisfactory, really. Fatty didn’t quite know what he had hoped to get from his telephone call, but he had certainly hoped for something a little more definite.

He went out of the call-box - and stepped right in front of old Clear-Orf, who had been watching him through the glass. No wonder Buster had been growling!

Mr. Goon felt very suspicious. Who was this boy telephoning to? Hadn’t he got a telephone in his own house? Yes, he had. But probably he didn’t want his mother to hear what he was saying, so he had gone out to the public call-box. Therefore Fatty must have been phoning about the mystery that Clear-Orf was certain the children were meddling in!

“Who you been phoning to?” he said.

“I don’t really think it’s any of your business, is it?” said Fatty, in the polite voice that always infuriated Mr. Goon.

“You been to Milton House any more?” said Mr. Goon, who had a definite feeling that the house had something more to do with the mystery than he knew.

“Milton House? Where’s that?” said Fatty innocently.

Mr. Goon swelled, and his face began to turn the purple colour that fascinated the children.

“None of your sauce,” he began. “You know where Milton House is as well as I do - better, perhaps!

“Oh! - you mean that old place we played hide-and-seek in the other day,” said Fatty, as if he had only just remembered. “Why don’t you come and have a game with us some time, Mr. Goon?”

Buster began to growl again. Mr. Goon edged away from him. That was the worst of talking to Fatty. He always had Buster with him, and Buster could always bring any conversation to a remarkably quick end.

Buster ran at Mr. Goon’s ankles, and the policeman kicked out. “Now don’t you hurt his other leg!” cried Fatty, and Mr. Goon immediately thought that it was his kicks two or three days before that had caused Buster’s leg to be bandaged.

“Well, you call him orf,” he said. “And clear-orf yourself. Hanging about in telephone boxes! Always messing about somewhere, and hanging around!”

He went off, and Fatty grinned. Poor old Clear-Orf! Fatty’s quick tongue could always get the better of him. Fatty strolled back to Pip’s house.

The others were interested to hear about his telephone call and amused to hear about Clear-Orf going all suspicious about it.

“But I say, Fatty - I’m not sure you ought to have said anything about Peterswood,” said Larry, after thinking a little. “You may have put him on his guard, you know. I mean - if Mr. Smith is up to some sort of underhand game at Milton House, he’ll get a shock to find out that somebody apparently knows about him in Peterswood - where his house is!”

“Blow! - yes, I think you’re right,” said Fatty, thinking of the quiet, quick way in which the person he had spoken to had replaced his receiver when he had mentioned Peterswood. Milton House was on the outskirts of Peterswood. Yes - he might have put Mr. John Henry Smith on his guard.