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He and Joe cast furtive glances at their father throughout the meal. Had Chet told him that they were wanted by the police? Above all, why did the authorities want them? Was it on account of the adventure with the runaway car at the race-track that afternoon? Had the owner of the machine laid a charge against them? “Chet was here,” said Mr. Hardy finally, putting aside his table napkin. “We—we met him,” gulped Joe. Frank had lost his appetite completely. “I guess I don’t care for any dessert,” he said. “Ate too many frankfurters at the race-track, I’ll be bound,” said Aunt Gertrude. “You seem to be worrying about something,” Mr. Hardy remarked blandly. “Me? Oh, no, I have nothing to worry about,” said Frank. “I thought you might be fretting because Chet told you the police wanted you.” Joe and Frank exchanged glances. “He told you?” muttered Joe in a faint voice. nostr:nevent1qqszgfkx9lrr0l8n0q9nj2hmxhzcq8s0pc3ma0haeujjvpac7mhur6spzemhxue69uhhyetvv9ujuurjd9kkzmpwdejhgq3qvxrjnake6nu39t3udn8qmf78j4c3ht6tpxe0uh38q4d6pkd6uzjsxpqqqqqqz7wch6j