The Secret Warning by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

carefully as I pleased.”
    â€œWhat did you do?” Joe asked.
    Mr. Scath looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t quite know what to do. Finally I called two of the references he gave me—another museum and a private collector. They both assured me that their dealings with Zufar had been entirely satisfactory. They both felt he was too keen to be taken in by a fake and wouldn’t risk trying to palm one off.”
    â€œHow about the cat?” said Frank. “Did you test it in any way?”
    â€œNo. It seemed authentic. Zufar offered to let me keep it for a detailed examination, but I told him we had no funds available for such a purchase at this time.”
    The curator paused to polish his glasses. “Then came a dreadful piece of bad luck. Zufar went to put the cat back in the carrying case—but, in his disturbed state, he let it slip from his fingers.”
    â€œDid the cat break?” Chet blurted out.
    â€œShattered to bits.” Mr. Scath shook his head unhappily. “What followed was even worse. Zufar himself went all to pieces.”
    The curator related that Zufar had then begun pouring out his troubles. He told of the golden Pharaoh’s head which had been lost when the Katawa sank, and said he had heard that the shipping line’s insurance company thought he was trying to defraud them, because of some false rumor about a duplicate head.
    â€œDid he strike you as putting on an act?” Frank asked.
    â€œI don’t believe so. He said he’s had nothing but bad luck ever since the gold treasure first came into his possession. Then he asked me to recommend a good detective agency to run down the scoundrel who was defaming him. Naturally,” Mr. Scath ended, “I suggested your father.”
    â€œZufar still seemed pretty tense when he came to our place,” Joe mused. “How much is the Egyptian cat worth, Mr. Scath?”
    â€œHard to say. But at least five hundred dollars.”
    â€œWow!” Chet broke in. “That’s a high price for butterfingers.”
    â€œIncidentally,” Mr. Scath went on, “Zufar’s tale of bad luck may well be true if you accept superstition.”
    Frank said, “How so?”
    â€œWhen the tomb of Rhamaton IV was opened, a curse was supposed to fall on those who had violated the royal crypt,” Mr. Scath explained, “and the curse actually seemed to be fulfilled. The newspapers made much of it at the time.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Joe asked.
    â€œSoon after the discovery, the leader of the excavating party died of a heart attack. And several others in the party became ill or suffered accidents.”
    Chet shifted uneasily.
    â€œThe Rhamaton head eventually came into the possession of a wealthy Lebanese businessman in Beirut,” Mr. Scath went on. “He was later ruined financially. Then when Zufar bought the head and was bringing it to this country, the ship sank.”
    Frank said dryly, “Seems to bear out the curse all right, except I don’t believe in ancient curses.”
    â€œWell, I’m not so sure I don’t,” Chet said.
    After thanking the curator, the boys left the museum and drove to the beach. An hour of swimming and sunbathing, topped off by a lunch of hamburgers, soon put even Chet in a more cheerful mood.
    At four-thirty that afternoon the Hardys picked up Iola, Chet, and Callie for Biff’s barbecue.
    The Hoopers’ wide yard, which sloped down to a pleasant, woodsy creek, was already noisy with the gay chatter of boys and girls when the Hardys’ group arrived.
    Eager shouts greeted them. Chet was promptly given a chef’s hat and apron.
    â€œThis is my style!” he said laughingly, and soon was busy stoking the portable grill.
    Biff, a tall, blond, and rangy youth, ambled among his guests, handing out soft drinks. Then he cupped his big hands and bellowed for attention.
    â€œNow hear this, you guys and