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“All right,” said Marshal Wittaker, when he had examined the keys. “This new one was made out of an old spoon. Go ahead.”

“We never had a key like that in the house,” said Mr. Griscom. “But when we reached home last night, this nickel-silver key was sticking in the lock of the front door, on the outside, and the door was unlocked and standing ajar.”

“Just as if some one had gone in at the front door and left it unlocked,” said Mr. Wittaker.

“Exactly!” said Mr. Griscom. “So the first thing we thought was ‘Burglars!’ and the first place my wife looked was the sideboard, in the dining-room, and there–“

“Yes,” said Mr. Wittaker. “There, on the sideboard, were a dozen solid silver spoons you had never seen before.”

“And marked with my wife’s initials–understand!” said Mr. Griscom. “And the cellar window–the one on the east side of the house–had been broken out of.”

“Why not broken into?” asked the Marshal.

“Well, I’m not quite a fool,” said Mr. Griscom with some heat. “I know because of the marks his jimmy made on the sill.”

“Some one has been playing a joke on you,” said Mr. Wittaker. “You wait, and you’ll see. You won’t be offended if I ask you a question?”

“My wife knows no more about it than I do,” said Mr. Griscom hotly.

“Now, now,” said Mr. Wittaker soothingly. “I didn’t mean that. What are your own spoons, solid or plated?”

“Plated,” said Mr. Griscom.

“Well,” said Mr. Wittaker, “there’s where to look for the joke. Try to think who would consider it a joke to send you solid silver spoons.”

“Billy Getz!” exclaimed Mr. Griscom, mentioning the town joker.

“That’s the man I had in mind,” said Mr. Wittaker. “Now, I guess you can handle this alone, Mr. Griscom.”

“I guess I can,” agreed Mr. Griscom. And he went out.

The Marshal chuckled.

“Un-burgled!” he said to himself. “That’s a new one for sure! That’s the sort of burglary to set Philo Gubb, the un-detective, on.”

He was still grinning as he went out, but he tried to hide the grin when he met Billy Getz on Main Street. Billy uttered a hasty “Can’t stop now, Wittaker!” but the head of the Riverbank police grasped his arm.

“What’s your rush? I’ve got some fun for you,” said Wittaker.

“Some other time,” said Billy. “I just borrowed this from Doc Mortimer and promised to take it back quick.”

“What is it?” asked the Marshal, gazing at the curious affair Billy had in his hands. It looked very much like a coffeepot, and on the lid was a wheel, like a small tin windmill. Just below the lid, and above the spout, was a hole as large as a dime.

“Lung-tester,” said Billy, trying to pull away. “Let me go, will you, Wittaker? I’m in a hurry. Just borrowed it to settle a bet with Sam Simmons. I show two pounds more lung pressure than he does. Twenty-six pounds.”

“You?” scoffed Wittaker. “I bet I can show twenty-eight, if you can show twenty-six.”

“Oh, well! I suppose I can’t get away until baby tries the new toy. But hurry up, will you?”

The Marshal put his lips to the spout and blew. Instantly, from the hole under the lid, a great cloud of flour shot out, covering his face and head, and deluging his garments. From up and down the street came shouts of joy, and the Marshal, brushing at his face, grinned.

“One on me, Billy,” he said, good-naturedly, patting the flour out of his hair, “and just when I was coming to put you onto some fun, too. What do you know about the Griscom un-burglary?”

“Not a thing!” Billy said. “Tell me.”

“I didn’t expect you would know anything about it,” said the Marshal with a wink. “But how about putting Correspondence School Detective Gubb onto the job?”

“Fine!” said Billy. “Tell me what the un-burgled Griscom thing is, and I’ll do the rest.”

Billy found Philo Gubb at work in the house on Tenth Street, hanging paper on the second floor, and the lank detective looked at Billy solemnly as the story of the Griscom affair was explained to him.