CHAPTER XI

The Mysterious Telephone Call

frank and Joe lost no time in getting to Hopkins-ville and finding Paniel J. Eaton.

He was a small, baldish man, and his little store was wedged inconspicuously between a shabby establishment advertising antique glass and one selling furniture. Hopkinsville seemed to have a good many such places-stores dealing in stamps, old coins and rare books. An ideal spot to dispose of old documents!

"Here are the letters. They're authentic, all right," Mr. Eaton told the boys.

Frank and Joe examined the Admiral Hardy letters.

"Will you please tell us where you got these?" Frank requested.

"They were sold to me by a Mrs. Elizabeth Hardy a few days ago," the man replied. "She said the let-

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ters had been in the possession of her branch of the family for many years."

"Would they be valuable to a museum or to a col-ector?" asked Joe.

Mr. Eaton shook his head. "Not very valuable. To another member of the Hardy family, however -someone such as your father-"

"Then why didn't this Mrs. Elizabeth Hardy offer to sell them to us, instead of to you?"

"She explained about the family quarrel. Oh, don't worry, I shan't mention it. She assured me, though, that you would be eager to buy the letters, so I'd be sure of a small profit if I handled the deal. Mrs. Hardy said she was in financial difficulties; otherwise she wouldn't have parted with the letters at all."

"Does this woman live in Hopkinsville?" asked Frank.

"No. She said she came from out of town; was only passing through. I had never seen her before," answered the dealer. "But why all these questions? Doesn't your father want the letters?"

"He wants them, all right, but he doesn't want to buy them. The letters were stolen from my aunt several days ago."

The boys then told Mr. Eaton the whole story of the missing carton, and said there had been no family quarrel and that the woman no doubt was a

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fraud. He was apparently an honest man, and when he saw the identification they carried and was convinced that the Hardys were telling him the truth he wrapped up the letters quickly and handed them across the counter.

"I don't deal in stolen goods," he said. "Please return these to your aunt with my compliments. As for the money I paid for them, the amount was not large. If I'm the loser it's my own fault."

The boys thanked him. Mr. Eaton said that while he had bought only the letters from "Mrs. Hardy," she had offered him a number of old books that also might have been in the carton.

"She may have sold them elsewhere in town," he suggested. "There are some old-book stores and antique shops on the next block too. If you look around, you may recover the entire lot."

Before the boys left the store they went toward the back ,to examine some old framed documents hanging on the wall. Mr. Eaton said he had bought them in the course of the previous week.

"Quite valuable," he said. "I'm certain they're authentic."

"They look authentic," Frank remarked. "We can give you a tip, though, Mr. Eaton. Many faked documents are being put on the market. They're so cleverly done it's hard to tell they're fakes. If you're offered any more, you'd better study the

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wording on them. That's where the crooks who make them slip up."

"Thanks for the tip," said Mr. Eaton gratefully.

He promised not to divulge the information to anyone, and to send the Hardys the name and address of anyone offering him documents for sale.

Unseen by the boys or Mr. Eaton, a man had entered the shop. Catching Frank's words, he came to a sudden halt, listened a moment, then edged outside quickly. There was a knowing expression on his crafty face. By the time the Hardys left the store, the eavesdropper was standing idly by the curb, pretending to be deeply absorbed in the traffic.

Frank and Joe visited half a dozen other dealers. From a list Aunt Gertrude had supplied them, they were able to identify several rare old books, autographed first editions and a number of historical documents. All had been sold to the dealers within recent days by a gray-haired woman who claimed to belong to the Hardy family. In every case a detailed description of her was the same and tallied with that of the fake "Mrs. Harrison," though she had used various names.

"She's the one who helped herself to Mrs. Harrison's house in Bayport, all right," Joe declared. "Now this mystery is beginning to shape up. She and the man with the scar are in cahoots!"

At one shop the boys were sure they had picked

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up a promising clue. Although the woman had sold Aunt Gertrude's family heirlooms to several dealers, only one had insisted upon learning her address. To this man she had given her name as Mrs. Randall, her address as the Palace Hotel.

The Hardys hastened over to the Palace, a small hotel about a block from the railroad station. There they found the lead was false. No one by the name of Mrs. Randall had stayed there; nor could the clerk recall anyone answering the woman's description. Joe, thinking perhaps he could recognize her handwriting, looked through the register but found nothing suspicious.

"That's that," said Joe, disappointed, as the boys emerged from the hotel.

"Maybe she's still in town," suggested Frank hopefully.

Vainly the brothers walked up one street and down another. Nowhere did they see the woman or her friend with the triangular scar on his cheek. As they were returning to their car, preparatory to going home, a familiar voice cried out:

"Well, look who's here!"

The Hardys turned. Beaming at them, his mouth full of peanuts, stood Chet Morton. With him were two girls; his sister lola and her friend Gallic Shaw.

"Hi!" laughed Gallic. "Surprise!"

"Surprise yourself!" declared Frank. "What are you doing in Hopkinsville?"

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"We followed you," teased lola. "Chet called your house. When he heard you were here he decided to come too."

"Just a little business trip, really," said Chet grandly. "I've been calling on some of the storekeepers here. Got orders for a dozen mechanical herrings and some Morton Special flies. Now all I have to do is make the herrings, tie the flies and deliver them."

He produced an order book and thumbed the pages with an air of importance, while Frank and Joe howled with laughter.

"It's not funny," said Chet. "It means money. Now if you fellows would only help me-"

"Help you?" cried Joe. "How about that deep-sea fishing trip?"

"Guess you're right." Chet became silent.

"Oh," said Gallic. "I have something to tell you. It may be important."

"Mighty important, I'd say," observed Chet. "Sounds to me as if you fellows are playing with dynamite. Tell him about it, Gallic."

"I will if you'll give me a chance. We came to Hopkinsville by train. While Chet was out getting orders, lola and I went back to the station to find out about the return train for Bayport. I decided to phone a friend of mine here. The line was busy. While I was waiting for the call, I heard a man talking in the next booth. I didn't pay any attention

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until he cried out, 'Those boys are wise guys. They've got to keep out of our business, or their old man won't see 'em for a long time!' "

Gallic took a deep breath.

"Go on," said Frank eagerly.

"Then the man said, 'Yes, I mean Frank and Joe Hardy.' With that he dashed out of the booth and got on a train."

"Did you know him?" asked Joe excitedly.

"Oh, no."

"What did he look like? Did he have a triangular scar on his face?"

Gallic shook her head. "Not that I noticed."

"Did he mention the name of the person to whom he was talking?" asked Frank.

"He did at the beginning," said Gallic, "but at that time I wasn't paying much attention. I've been trying to remember it. I keep thinking of the word 'duck' but it wasn't that."

"Speaking of ducks," interrupted Chet, "I could go for a chicken sandwich right now. It's been a long time since I've eaten. Let's try that restaurant across the street."

In the restaurant, waiting for sandwiches and milk, Frank and Joe questioned Gallic closely about the overheard telephone conversation, but she could recall little more than what she had already told them.

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"It's silly of me to forget," she said ruefully. "I know he mentioned the name of the person at the other end of the line."

"Mother says the best way to remember something you've forgotten," Chet said solemnly, "is to forget about it. I mean, change the subject. Talk about something else. Let's talk about the freighter trip, for example. You fellows had better book a fourth passage, by the way. Mr. McClintock says he wants me to go along. In fact, he insists on it."

"We've got to find a freighter first," said Joe.

At this moment the waitress brought the food. Chet picked up his sandwich. As he opened his mouth, preparatory to taking a huge bite, Gallic suddenly cried out:

"I know! Duck! Quack! Klack!"

There was a howl from Chet. At the word "duck" he had ducked his head smartly, at the same time clamping his teeth firmly on his thumb holding the sandwich.

"Ouch!" he yelped.

Gallic paid no attention.

"Klack! That's the name of the man he talked to on the telephone."