"Glad to meet you. I know your father slightly—Mortimer Hamilton?"
"Yes."
"This is odd, a ruined millionaire and a successful one," and he laughed grimly. "Never mind, I'll be in your class soon again," and he shook hands with Dick, who had introduced his chums.
"Wardell—Frank Wardell," murmured Dick to Paul. "Do you recognize that name?"
"I can't say that I do. Why?"
"Don't ask me now. I'll tell you later. To think it should come out this way," went on Dick. "Frank Wardell! The man I met on the track—a ruined millionaire. No wonder he acted so strangely. Oh, if I could only help him! I hope he doesn't ask too much about my family. I'd hate to have to admit that I'm Uncle Ezra's nephew," and with this rather mystifying ejaculation, Dick gave his attention to what Mr. Wardell was saying—explaining some points about the car that had escaped the attention of the boys.
"I do hope you will take it, Mr. Hamilton," the ruined millionaire went on. "I don't know of anyone I'd rather would get it than you. I know you'll appreciate it."
"I think very likely I shall take it," said Dick.
"Then you'll take a load off my shoulders," the other went on, "for I feel, in a measure, responsible for the price, and the land knows I could never raise the cash."
And Dick, as he looked over the wonderful touring car, could not help thinking how strangely fate had ordered matters. Paul looked at his chum, anxious to hear why the name "Wardell" should make such an impression on the young millionaire.