Fenton Hardy was in the library, and as they rushed panting into the room he grinned broadly at his sons, for he was quite well aware that they were impatient to hear an account of his trip.
He looked refreshed after his long sleep and it was evident that his trip had not been entirely without success, for his manner was cheerful. The Hardy boys knew their father well, and they knew that when a case was difficult of solution the great detective became moody and worried.
"What luck, dad?" asked Frank, perching on the arm of an easy chair.
Mr. Hardy raised his eyebrows, pretending not to understand.
"About what?" he inquired.
"About the case. The Tower Mansion case. The red wig. Did you find out who owned it? Did you catch the thief?"
"Whoa! Whoa! Not all at once. A question at a time please. Now, do I understand that you want to know if I found out anything about the Tower Mansion affair?"
"Don't keep us waiting, dad," pleaded Joe. "You know that's what we're asking you about."
"Well," answered Mr. Hardy, "yes—and no!"
"That's not much of an answer," objected Frank, in disappointment.