“But who are you?” he asked. “You’re just boys!”

“I’m August August, sir,” the English boy said. “You told me to call on you today.”

“Oh yes.” Mr. Dwiggins nodded. “And these are friends of yours?”

“This will help explain, sir,” Jupiter answered and produced from his pocket a printed card which he handed to the lawyer. It said:

“You’re investigators?” the lawyer seemed surprised.

“They’re going to help me solve the mysterious message Great-Uncle Horatio sent me, sir,” Gus said.

“Oh.” Mr. Dwiggins blinked again. He peered once more at the card. “It’s a very impressive card, young man. But may I ask what the question marks stand for?”

The three had been waiting for that question. Hardly anyone failed to ask it when they saw the card.

“The question mark, otherwise known as the interrogation mark,” Jupiter said, “stands for things unknown, questions unanswered, mysteries unsolved, riddles of any sort. Our business is answering the questions, unravelling the riddles, solving any mysteries which come our way. Hence, the question mark is the symbol of The Three Investigators.”

“I see, I see,” the lawyer murmured. “That’s rather an ambitious programme. Still, I like to see young people with self-confidence...But good gracious, I’m forgetting about my attacker!”

He sprang to his feet and looked around. He spotted the open filing cabinet.

“My confidential files! The scoundrel has been in my files! Now what did he take? What’s this folder on my desk? I didn’t leave it there!”

He snatched up the manila folder on the desk and began to leaf through the many papers inside.

“It’s your great-uncle’s folder!” he exclaimed to Gus. “I was his lawyer for twenty years and I kept all the papers relating to the business I handled for him in here. Now why should anyone be interested in...the message! It’s gone!”

He looked at Gus. “The fellow who attacked me took the copy I made of your great-uncle’s message to you!” he exclaimed. “Although it seemed meaningless to me, your great-uncle obviously considered it very important, so I made a copy in case the original somehow was lost. Naturally, I expected it to be safe in my confidential files. But it’s been stolen!”

“Please tell us just what happened, sir,” Jupiter requested. “This new development may be very significant.”

The lawyer put the file folder back in the cabinet and locked the drawer. Then he sat down and told them what he could.

Mr. Dwiggins had been seated at his desk, working on some papers, when the door had opened. He looked up to see a man of average height, with a black moustache and heavy eyeglasses. As Mr. Dwiggins was about to speak, the intruder reached out and put a hand over his eyes, half knocking off his glasses. Before the lawyer could make any move to defend himself, his attacker had pulled him from his chair, dragged him across the room, and shut him in the coat closet, which automatically locked.

At first Mr. Dwiggins had hammered on the locked door, shouting for help. However, as he lived alone there was no one to hear him except the man who had locked him in. Realizing this, Mr. Dwiggins had stopped shouting and listened.

After a few minutes, he heard the outer door open and shut, indicating his attacker had left. Again he hammered on the closet door and shouted, until he realized he was only using up precious oxygen.

“Then I sat down on the floor and waited for help,” Mr. Dwiggins finished. “I knew the air in the closet would only last a few hours. Thank goodness you came when you did!”

“What time did this happen, sir?” Jupiter asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Dwiggins answered. “Let’s see, it’s now —” He looked at his wrist-watch. The hands had stopped at 9.17, more than an hour and a half before.

“My watch!” he exclaimed. “It must have broken when that scoundrel threw me into the closet.”

“That means whoever it was has had nearly two hours to get away,” Jupiter said. “He could be anywhere now. Did you notice anything else about him, Mr. Dwiggins? Anything that might be a clue?”

“I’m sorry. I was so surprised I just had time to notice his moustache and glasses and the way his eyes seemed to gleam behind the lenses.”

“Not much help there,” Pete put in.

“I guess not,” Jupiter agreed. “Do you see anything else in here that could have been disturbed, Mr. Dwiggins?”

The lawyer looked around his office.

“Apparently he went straight to the filing cabinet,” he said. “Then as soon as he found what he wanted, he left.”

“Hmmm,” Jupiter murmured. “That means he knew exactly what he was looking for, and of course he could find the right file because the folders are arranged alphabetically. But how did he know about the message in the first place?”

Mr. Dwiggins blinked. “Why — I don’t know.”

“Was there anyone else around when Mr. August wrote the message?” Jupiter asked.

Mr. Dwiggins nodded. “Yes,” he said. “The couple who took care of him. An old fellow and his wife. They’d been with him for years. She did the housekeeping and he tended the lawn and the garden. Name’s Jackson. But when he died they went to San Francisco. Still, they were both of them in and out. One of them could have heard Mr. August telling me the message was vitally important and I must get it to his great-nephew without fail the moment he died.”

“They could have told somebody else about it,” Pete suggested. “This somebody could have guessed Mr. Dwiggins would make a copy, and come here to look.”

“Mr. August was generally supposed to have a lot of money hidden somewhere,” the lawyer said. “Anyone hearing of a secret message would instantly jump to the conclusion that it told where to find the money. Actually, though, Mr. August died in rather poor circumstances. His home was mortgaged and the mortgage holder is taking possession of it. I had to have the furnishings sold to pay his final bills.”

“But the message indicates that he hid something valuable for me to find,” Gus said. “Something he was afraid of for some reason.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Mr. Dwiggins took off his glasses and wiped them. “Whatever it was, he kept it a secret from me. Several times he said to me, ‘Henry, there are things about me you’re better off not knowing. One of them is my right name, which isn’t Harry Weston. Another is — but never mind. Just remember this: if you ever see a dark-skinned man with three dots tattooed on his forehead hanging around here, look out for stormy weather.”

“A very strange man, Mr. Weston — I mean, Mr. August. Strange but likeable. Naturally, I never tried to pry into his secret, whatever it was.”

“Excuse me, sir!” Jupiter Jones blurted out. “Do I understand that Mr. August was actually known as Mr. Weston?”

“Why yes. All the time he lived in Hollywood he called himself Harry Weston. It was only when he was near death and gave me his great-nephew’s name and address that he revealed his true name to me.”

Jupiter’s gaze turned towards the filing cabinet drawer which they had seen open when they first entered. On the front was lettered A-C.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dwiggins,” Jupiter said, “but I notice you put the file folder in the A drawer — A for August, of course. I suppose that when you learned his real name you changed the name on the folder from Weston to August?”

“Yes, of course. I do like to be accurate in these matters.”

“But apparently the man who attacked you knew right where to look for it,” Jupiter persisted. “Why didn’t he look under Weston in the W file?”

“Why, I don’t know.” Mr. Dwiggins pondered. “Unless the Jacksons heard him tell me his real name...Oh, of course. I have something to show you.”

He went to the A file and brought out a slip of paper. It was a clipping from a newspaper.