“This was in the Los Angeles paper,” the lawyer said. “A reporter got wind of the fact that there was some mystery about Mr. Weston. He came pestering me and as Mr. August was dead, I saw no harm in telling his real name and what little else I knew about him. It’s all there, so anyone could have read it.”

The other three crowded round Jupiter to see the newspaper clipping. The small headline said: MAN OF MYSTERY DIES AT SECLUDED HOME IN LONELY DIAL CANYON.

Jupiter read the newspaper article rapidly. From it he learned that Mr. Horatio August, using the name of Harry Weston, had come to Hollywood about twenty years before, after living for many years in the West Indies. He apparently then had a good deal of money, earned as a young man in trading ventures in the South Seas and the Orient.

He had purchased a large house in Dial Canyon, in the remote hills north of Hollywood, and had lived there very quietly with only two servants to attend him. Making no friends, he had contented himself with collecting old clocks and books, especially old Latin books. He had also collected as many different editions as he could of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. As a boy in England he had once met the famous author, and was a great admirer of his fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He had lived quietly under his assumed name until his death, after a brief illness for which he had refused to go to the hospital. He had said that one of his ambitions had been to die quietly in his own bed, and he proposed to do so now.

A tall man, with bushy white hair, he had never allowed himself to be photographed. His only known relatives lived in England. After his death the doctor who signed his death certificate had found upon his body the scars of many old wounds, apparently inflicted by a knife during some untold adventure of his youth.

Nothing else could be learned about his mysterious past.

“Golly!” Pete breathed. “He certainly was a man of mystery.”

“Knife scars!” Gus said. “He must have had a very adventurous life. I wonder if he could have been a smuggler?”

“He was hiding from someone,” Bob chimed in. “That’s pretty plain. First he must have hidden in the West Indies, then apparently he got scared he’d be found, and came here to hide in Dial Canyon. I guess he figured there are so many strange people in Los Angeles and Hollywood that he wouldn’t create any stir here.”

“Anyway,” Jupiter added, “he did die quietly in bed. But if that was his ambition, it means he was afraid of violence from someone, presumably someone with a dark complexion and three dots tattooed on his forehead.”

“Wait a moment!” Gus cried. “I’m just remembering — something happened about ten years ago when I was very small...” He frowned in an effort to remember.

“One night after I’d gone to bed, I heard voices downstairs — my father talking to someone. Then I heard Father raise his voice. He said, ‘I tell you I don’t know where my uncle is! As far as we know, he died long ago. If he is alive, I couldn’t tell you where he is, not even for a million pounds.’

“That aroused me and I got out of bed and went to the head of the stairs. My father and a strange man were standing in the middle of the living-room. The stranger said something I couldn’t hear, and my father answered, ‘I don’t care how important it is to you. I never heard of The Fiery Eye. And I’ve never heard from my uncle. Now get out and leave me alone!”

“When Father said that, the tall man bowed and turned to pick up his hat. He looked up and saw me, but he acted as if I wasn’t there. He took his hat, bowed again, and went out. Father never mentioned the visitor, and I didn’t ask about it because I knew he’d be angry at my listening when I was supposed to be in bed. But —”

Gus lowered his voice. “The man who’d been talking to Father had a dark complexion, and three dark spots on his forehead. I couldn’t figure out what they were at the time. Now I realize they must have been small tattoo marks.”

“Wow!” Bob said. “Three-Dots was trying to locate your great-uncle through your father.”

“Which is why Great-Uncle Horatio never communicated with us, I expect,” Gus said. “He didn’t want to be located.”

“The Fiery Eye,” Jupiter murmured. “Mr. Dwiggins, did Mr. August ever mention such a thing to you?”

“No, my boy. I knew him for twenty years and he never mentioned it. All that I know about him is in that newspaper article. I regret now that I gave the reporter the information, but there seemed no harm in it at the time. One thing I must add — towards the end he became very secretive. Seemed to feel there were enemies around and he was being spied upon. Didn’t even trust me. So he might easily have hidden something to keep it out of the hands of these imaginary enemies, and then sent you the message that he thought would enable you to locate it.”

“I see,” Jupiter said. “Well, we came to ask you about Mr. August, and I guess we’ve learned everything we can from reading the article. I think our next move is to visit the house in Dial Canyon and see if we can learn anything there.”

“There’s nothing there now but the empty house,” Mr. Dwiggins told him. “As Mr. August’s executor, I sold off all the books and furnishings to pay his debts. In three or four days the gentleman who owns the mortgage on the house is going to tear it down and erect modern homes on the land.

“If you want to visit the empty house, you may — I can give you permission, and a key to let you in. However, I don’t know what you can find, because it’s quite empty. There were a few books left, up till yesterday. And of course the statues — busts, that is. Plaster heads of famous men. However, they weren’t worth anything so I sold them all to a junk dealer for a few dollars —”

“Busts!” Jupiter moved as if he had been stung by a bee. Plaster busts from an old house! Why, those must be the ones Titus Jones had brought to the salvage yard the day before. Caesar, Washington, Lincoln, and the rest.

“Mr. Dwiggins,” Jupiter said swiftly, “we have to go now. Thank you very much. I think I understand the meaning of the secret message. But we have to hurry.”

He turned and walked quickly out. Perplexed, Bob, Pete, and Gus followed. The Rolls-Royce was waiting with Worthington polishing its shining blackness with loving care.

“Worthington,” Jupiter ordered as they all piled into the car, “back home! We have to hurry!”

“Very good, Master Jones,” the chauffeur agreed. He backed the car out of the driveway, and headed for Rocky Beach at the fastest legal limit of speed.

“Gosh, Jupe, what’s the rush?” Pete asked. “You act as if we were going to a fire!”

“Not a fire,” Jupiter said mysteriously. “A Fiery Eye.”

“I don’t get you,” Pete scowled. Bob, however, thought he understood.

“Jupe,” he cried, “you’ve solved the secret message! Is that it?”

Jupiter nodded, trying to hide his look of satisfaction.

Gus gaped at him. “You really mean it?” he asked.

“I think I have,” Jupiter replied. “The answer lies in your great-uncle’s admiration for the stories about Sherlock Holmes, and in the plaster busts which Mr. Dwiggins mentioned.”

“I don’t get it,” Pete groaned. “Sherlock Holmes — plaster busts — do they have a connection with the message?”

“I’ll explain in more detail later,” Jupiter said. “For the moment, please recall that one line of the message tells Gus that ‘In August is your fortune.’...”

“Well?” Pete looked blank. So did Gus. Bob, however, followed Jupiter’s thinking.

“Those plaster busts of famous people,” he said. “Washington, Lincoln, and so on. And one of them was the head of Augustus of Poland.”

“...‘In August is your fortune’!” Gus said excitedly. “August — Augustus! You mean something is hidden inside the plaster bust of Augustus?” “I’m practically sure of it,” Jupiter replied. “It all fits together perfectly. Mr. August liked to read Sherlock Holmes stories for recreation. There’s one called The Adventure of the Six Napoleons in which a valuable object is hidden in a bust of Napoleon. That must have given Mr. August an idea for hiding this Fiery Eye where no one would suspect it — in an ordinary plaster bust. He chose Augustus because the name was so much like his own, and Gus’s here, that he was sure Gus or his father would figure it out. Notice that the words ‘In August is’ sound like ‘in Augustus.”