"License number?"
"Great Scott!" snapped Bartlett. "What do you want next? My age? My number is on the back of my car. I have so many cars I have forgotten it. Go and look, or ask my man. Alphonse, what's the number on the back?"
"97411," droned Alphonse coldly.
"Be both these cars yours?" asked the man, puzzled and a bit disappointed.
"That car," said the general pompously, "is mine. Allow me." He drew his card-case from his pocket, and to the tall man's consternation and Bartlett's horror, presented him with his card. The two withdrew and consulted a moment. Clearly the family party before them was not the young man wanted in Wilton for stealing a motor-car and a suit of clothes, but for all that, what were they doing in an empty house?
"We can arrest 'em and get a fine anyway," said the taller of the two, and the other agreed.
The Watermelon leaned forward with languid interest, his hat on the back of his head. "How d'ye do?" he drawled. "What are you doing with the popguns?"
"Hunting," grinned the spokesman pleasantly.
"Any luck?" asked the Watermelon.
"Bet cher life!" said the man. "Got what we were after."