“Gosh, we’ll never hear the end of it, if that’s the case,” sighed Joe. “Oh, well, we’ll just have to take it in good part. But we didn’t tell you about what happened on the way home. Tell him about it, Frank.”
“Another adventure?”
“A real one. No practical joke about this.”
Frank thereupon told their father about the two motorboats in Barmet Bay, about the chase and the resulting explosion. He modestly underestimated their own part in the rescue of the victim of the wreck, but Fenton Hardy nodded his head in satisfaction as the story went on.
“Good work! Good work!” he muttered. “You saved the fellow’s life, anyway. And it looks as though you’ve stumbled on a mysterious bit of business in that motorboat chase. What did the man say his name was?”
“Jones,” answered Frank doubtfully.
Fenton Hardy raised his eyebrows. “Of course—there are lots of Joneses in the world. It might be his real name. But more than likely it isn’t. Would he tell you anything about the reason for the chase? Did you question him?”
“He wouldn’t tell us anything at all. We made a few inquiries, but he said he couldn’t explain.”
“Still more mysterious,” reflected the detective. “Do you think he will talk when he gets better?”
“I’m afraid not. He seemed quite determined not to tell us anything about himself or about the men who were chasing him.”