“Not lately. Two months ago,” the other answered.
“Who lost it?” And again Way glanced sharply at Dave. The latter was listening to every word but taking care to betray no unusual interest.
“H—m—m—Hull, Kull—why, that’s it! Kull was his name. But your car was not a Torpedo, was it?”
If the young man thought that in this question he guessed the reason for Phil’s wish to know more of the incident mentioned, he guessed wrong, of course. But unwilling to tell just why he was interested, until he should have had time to think, Phil gave him no enlightenment.
“No,” answered Way, “the Torpedo people don’t build a six-cylinder car, do they?”
“That’s right, yours was a six,” said the other. “Makes you so much the greater loser, with no insurance.”
“What luck did the Harkville man have finding his car? Someone must have looked for it even if he did have insurance.”
“Guess they did look for it,” said the garage man forcibly. “First Kull and the police, then the insurance people and detectives, and believe me, insurance companies don’t care how much it costs to find a stolen car if they’ve had to pay for it. They do get stung though, and last I heard, Kull had his money, for his car was never found, high or low. Strange case! Never a clue to go by. A padlock pried off Kull’s little garage and the machine gone and—there you are.”
“Strange!” muttered Phil, but he was thinking too, that, though this was exceedingly interesting information, he must not allow it to take his thoughts from the loss that meant so much more to himself and friends, personally. So, thanking the young man, he and Dave left the garage.
“Why didn’t you tell him about the Torpedo? She’s the Harkville car as sure as you’re born!” spoke MacLester, immediately the two were beyond hearing.