"Do something!" Joe hissed, not taking his eyes from the growling animals.

"Like what?" Frank breathed. "Throw them a treat? You, maybe? I don’t carry dog treats in my pockets!"

"Well, why not? You’re the oldest; you’re supposed to come prepared for these things!" Joe gulped. Despite the automatic attempt at humor, Joe was frightened. His body quivered against his older brother’s.

Before Frank could come up with a reply to that remark, he heard a most welcome sound behind him: the front door was being opened.

"Web! Net! Sit!" a firm masculine voice said. To the boys’ relief, the two dogs sank immediately to sitting positions, and stopped growling. "Stay!" the man continued.

Moving very slowly, Frank and Joe turned and beheld their rescuer, whom they assumed to be Steve Parker. The attorney was on the short side, perhaps 5’9". He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and was slightly built, with a roundish, cherubic face, and puffy cheeks. Light brown hair was evident on the sides of his head, but he was losing a battle with a receding hairline, on top. Tired green eyes looked keenly at them from behind silver wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed casually in jeans and a striped sweater, and wore brown loafers on his feet.

"Do you always make a habit of lurking on doorsteps?" he inquired, sounding harried and stressed out.

"Only when we’re likely to become Dog Yummies if we move!" Joe snapped.

Frank gave him an admonitory dig in the ribs. Hush up! Don’t antagonize the guy! was the unspoken command.

Parker frowned. "They won’t hurt you, now that I’ve told them to stay." he told Joe. "So who are you, and why are you here?"

"I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe." Frank stepped into the breach of hostility between the attorney and Joe. "We’re helping with the investigation of Donald Tremaine’s murder, and we’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if possible."

The man lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but opened the door a bit wider. "All right, come on inside. Web – Net – down!" he commanded, and the Rottweilers dropped obediently to the porch floor. "Stay." Parker waved a hand at the door. "Come in."

"Their names are Net and Web?" Frank queried, as he and Joe walked into the house. "Those are sort of unusual names – or are they short for something else?"

Steven Parker grinned; the change in expression erased years from his face. "My wife’s a computer programmer, and she named the dogs – it’s sort of an in-joke." He ushered them into the living room, where a woman in her early thirties sat, reading a magazine. "Pam, this is Frank and Joe Hardy…my wife Pamela."

She nodded, and got to her feet to shake hands. Parker waved the boys to seats.

"So, what do you want to talk to me about?" he questioned.

"We found a notebook hidden in Donald Tremaine’s hotel room," Frank began bluntly. "In it, there’s mention of a meeting scheduled between him and you, on Saturday night. The reason for this meeting seems to be that Tremaine knows something about you – something in your past – that would be considered questionable…and he wanted to talk to you about it…for whatever reasons." he concluded quietly.

The attorney stared at him. "I don’t know anything about any meeting!" he denied hotly "And there’s nothing hidden in my past! I don’t know who would have made up something like that, but I certainly didn’t plan to meet with Donald Tremaine for any such reason!"

"What was the last thing you talked to Tremaine about?" Joe asked, quickly shifting the subject, in the face of the man’s ire.

Parker thought a moment, the angry flush fading from his cheeks. "Mr. Tremaine had a background check done on everyone involved in the art show." he explained. "He had the information collected, and he was supposed to give it to me, after the board meeting…but he didn’t show up."

At that moment, Pamela Parker raised a question. "Why are you two involved in this?" she inquired. "You said you’re helping with the investigation – why? You seem terribly young for something like that."

Same old question, every time! Frank thought wryly. Aloud, he said: "We were in the right place at the right time, and we may have actually bumped into the murderer, leaving the scene…we might be able to identify him. Also," he continued, as she nodded her comprehension. "we’ve had some experience with investigative work. Joe and I work with our father occasionally, on cases."

"Your father?"

"That’s right – his name’s Fenton Hardy, and he’s a private investigator." Joe put in, with justifiable pride.

"I’ve heard of him!" Steve Parker exclaimed. "He’s got a fine reputation in the business…and I’ve heard of you two also, now that I think of it…Donald Tremaine mentioned you and your father."

The boys smiled – they were used to the reaction, but it was always nice to hear their father praised.

"That being the case," Mr. Parker now continued. "I would like very much if you would continue with your investigation into Tremaine’s death." He smiled suddenly. "And I’ll make your job a little easier. I’ll see to it that you’re issued security passes to the Parthenon, so that you can get in there if and when you need to."

Frank and Joe exchanged triumphant glances; this was a much more pleasant treatment than being set upon by Rottweilers!

Upon leaving the Parker residence, the boys headed back to their hotel. During the drive, Joe chattered about the things he had seen during the day, and about the Parkers, but Frank was silent and thoughtful. Finally, the younger boy demanded:

"What’s wrong? Are you even hearing anything I’ve said?"

"Sorry." Frank jerked himself from his distraction. "I was just thinking – I’d really like to search Tremaine’s room again, Joe."

Joe gave his brother a long look. "You really think that notebook was a plant, don’t you?" he asked, finally.

Frank nodded. "It was too convenient – too obvious. There may or may not have been a real notebook, and it may or may not have been found already…but since we quit looking when we discovered this one, we can’t know for sure."

"Well, let’s take another look then." Joe acquiesced. "This time we’ll go over every piece of furniture and every inch of closet and cabinet and wall space."

When they reached the hotel and Frank had parked the van, they made their way inside, intending to go immediately to Tremaine’s room and conduct their search. As they headed for the elevators, however, they were hailed by Rich Sutton, one of Joe’s classmates.

"You two ready for another mystery?" the red-haired, freckled youth asked them.

"Why do you ask?" Joe queried. How in the world did Rich Sutton find out about our investigating the Tremaine murder? he thought.

"The hotel was evacuated, a little earlier!" came the surprising response. "There was an explosion in one of the rooms on the third floor!"

"What?" Joe gasped, shocked.

"Which one?" Frank demanded, at the same time.

"I’m not sure," Sutton admitted. "They’re letting us go back inside, now, though…so I guess you can go up and see for yourselves."

The Hardys hurried for the elevator, feeling a definite anxiety. Firstly, what if it had been their room? Or, alternately, suppose it was Donald Tremaine’s?

When they reached the third floor, the boys were out of the elevator before the doors were completely open, and they trotted towards their room with fast-beating hearts. Before they reached it, however, they spotted a uniformed officer standing in the hallway, evidently guarding the entrance to a room.

Frank halted, and exhaled a deep sigh. "Not our room," he murmured to Joe. "…Tremaine’s."

Moving more slowly now, the boys approached the officer. He eyed them coolly as they neared him. "Move along, kids; just go to your own rooms."

"Is Sergeant Fogle here?" Frank asked. "If he is, could we speak to him, please?"

The policeman frowned. "Fogle? No, he’s off duty. Sergeant Henderson is handling this. But why do you need to talk to him?"

"We were assisting Sergeant Fogle with the investigation of Donald Tremaine’s murder," Frank answered him. "I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe."

The man raised a speculative eyebrow, but gestured them to enter the room. "Len?" he called. "There’re a couple of kids here who say they need to talk to you."

The slender, graying man who answered the call looked too unobtrusive and retiring to be a policeman, yet there was an indefinable air of authority about him. He listened to Frank’s explanation of their acquaintance with Sergeant Fogle, and how he had agreed to let them help in the case investigation.

"Fogle said you could help, hmmm? That’s about par for the course, letting teenagers work on a murder case…" The man gave a weary, somewhat exasperated sigh. "Well, if you’ve got his permission, it’s his show. Go ahead and look around, if you want to."

"Could you tell us what happened?" Frank inquired, looking around at the charred mess. "What have you found?"

"Incendiary device—" came the reply. "It was planted on the bed, apparently. The fire department has already been and gone; they’ll probably send an arson investigation team back tomorrow for a complete check." The officer went into the hallway, effectively ending the conversation. Evidently he didn’t wish to spend time chatting with the boys.

"There’s no way anything – any clues – could have survived this." Joe whispered in his brother’s ear as they walked about the room. "There’s nothing left!" He stopped in his tracks. "Wait a minute – why trash this room, anyway? There wasn’t anything in it; we already established that!"

Frank was forced to agree. Why should the room have been fire-bombed? Unless…unless….

"Because someone knew, or someone suspected, that there was still something here," he reasoned quietly. "Something that we, and the police investigators, missed. Something incriminating."

Joe made a hissing sound of disgust. "It must be gone now, then."

"Yes, I guess so." Frank absent-mindedly bent to right the small wastepaper basket, which had been turned over, but had somehow survived the blast. He turned it upright, and was about to set it down again when Joe gripped his arm.

"Wait!" The younger Hardy boy’s blue eyes were bright with excitement. He took the waste can from Frank’s hands, and turned it upside down once again. "Look!"

Taped to the bottom of the container was a bright brass key.