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clutching a shotgun in one hand. He wore an old coat flung over a pair of long underwear, and rubber boots. Evidently he had pulled on the first thing that came to hand before charging out of his house.
    â€œWhat happened?” Frank called out.
    â€œThat doggone werewolf!” the farmer fumed. “I heard it attacking my livestock in the barn, so I grabbed my gun and went after it!”
    â€œYou actually saw the creature?”
    â€œYou bet I did! It musta heard me comin‘! Went boundin’ outa the barn just as I ran through the back door toward the yard. I gave it both barrels, but the thing got away!”
    â€œWhat did it look like?” Joe asked.
    â€œBig wolf-dog! And its fur glowed fiery white. I’m not jokin‘, boys!”
    Frank nodded. “We believe you. We just met another guy who saw it before it came here!”
    â€œWhich way did it go?” put in the younger Hardy.
    â€œIt leaped clear over this gate and went into them woods.” The farmer pointed across the road.
    Frank and Joe accompanied him as he probed about among the trees, lending their flashlights to the search. But the ghostly beast had disappeared. They finally said good night to the farmer and headed back to town.
    A number of people in Hawk River had been wakened by the distant wolf howls. None of them, however, had glimpsed the prowling creature itself.
    â€œI’ve a hunch that farmer was the last one to see it tonight,” Frank remarked to his brother.
    â€œSame here,” Joe agreed. “Let’s go and find out what Chet has to report.”
    As they approached the driveway of the Tabor estate, their ears were assailed by a strange, grating noise.
    â€œAre you thinking what I’m thinking?” Joe asked.
    â€œI’m afraid so,” Frank replied. “But let’s hope we’re wrong. ”
    Unfortunately they were not. The sound they had heard proved to be low, rumbling snores. Chet was slumped sound asleep in his snug tree perch, with his chin on his chest.
    â€œWake up, Strongheart!” said Joe, reaching up to tug the stout boy’s ankle.
    Chet twitched nervously and awoke with a violent start that almost sent him tumbling out of the tree into the arms of the Hardy boys.
    â€œWh-what happened?” he stuttered, clutching at the branch for support.
    â€œDon’t panic, the battle’s over.” Frank grinned. He and Joe related the night’s sensational events.
    â€œI don’t suppose you’d know whether John Tabor sneaked out of the house?” Joe inquired.
    â€œWe-e-ell, actually no, I don‘t,” Chet confessed shamefacedly. “But I sure didn’t see any sign of him before I dozed off.”
    â€œWhich was probably seconds after we left,” said Frank. “I think we’d better wake up the Tabors.”
    Chet swung himself out of the tree and accompanied his pals up to the front door of the house. Frank decided not to ring the bell, hoping a knock or two might be less alarming.
    Soon Karel Tabor himself appeared at the door. “Come in, boys,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”
    â€œThe werewolf’s on the prowl again, Mr. Tabor,” Frank explained. “I hope you won’t misunderstand our reason for coming here, but it might be a good idea to check if John’s home in bed.”
    â€œGood thinking,” the architect nodded. “I’m glad you came. Assuming John is upstairs, sound asleep, you fellows will be able to bear witness that he has nothing to do with this werewolf scare!”
    Despite his words, the boys could tell from Mr. Tabor’s expression and voice that he was far from confident that this was the case. He invited the Hardys and Chet to sit down while he went up to look in his son’s room,
    When he returned a few moments later, the young detectives knew at a glance that the news was bad.
    â€œJohn’s bed hasn’t been slept in,” the