Fenton Hardy, the internationally famous detective, was reading in the library of his home that evening when his sons tapped on the door.
Although he was a busy man, Mr. Hardy was not the type of father who maintains an air of aloofness from his family, the result being that he was on as good terms with his boys as though he were an elder brother.
"Come in," he shouted cheerfully, putting aside his book, and when Frank and Joe entered the room he motioned to a deep leather sofa near the window. "Sit down. What have you been doing all day? Burning up all the roads in the country, I suppose?" He grinned amiably at them and puffed vigorously at his pipe.
"Well, we didn't travel very far to-day, dad," Frank replied. "We were—well, we—we were—"
"Investigating," prompted Joe.
"Aha!" exclaimed Mr. Hardy, in mock surprise. "So my sons were investigating, eh? What was it? A murder? A plot to blow up the White House? A train wreck? Something big, I hope."
"No—not quite that bad," admitted Frank. "It was a car theft."
Mr. Hardy shook his head.
"I'm disappointed in you," he said solemnly. "I really am. To think that sons of mine should investigate a car theft. I thought you wouldn't bother about anything less than a murder!" His eyes twinkled, and the Hardy boys, who were accustomed to their father's good-natured banter, smiled back at him.
"We weren't just practicing detective work, dad," explained Frank. "You see, Chet Morton's roadster was stolen this morning."