“Hello, Mother!” said Frank, as he pushed open the kitchen door.
Mrs. Hardy, a petite, pretty woman, looked up from the table on which she was stuffing a large roasting chicken and smiled.
Her sons kissed her affectionately and Joe asked, “Dad upstairs?”
“Yes, dear. He’s in his study.”
The study was Fenton Hardy’s workshop. Adjoining it was a fine library which contained not only books but files of disguises, records of criminal cases, and translations of thousands of codes.
Walking into the study, Frank and Joe greeted their father. “We’re reporting errand accomplished,” Frank announced.
“Fine!” Mr. Hardy replied. Then he gave his sons a searching glance. “I’d say your trip netted you more than just my errand.”
Frank and Joe had learned early in their boyhood that it was impossible to keep any secrets from their astute father. They assumed that this ability was one reason why he had been such a successful detective on the New York City police force before setting up a private practice in Bay-port.
“We ran into some real excitement,” Frank said, and told his father the whole story of Chet’s missing jalopy, the wrecked car which they suspected had been a stolen one also, and the attempted holdup at the ferryboat office.
“Chet’s counting on us to find his car,” Joe added.