VII

Hurd Applegate was a man of about sixty years of age. He was a tall, stooped man, eccentric in his ways, and his life seemed to be devoted to the collection of rare stamps. He was an authority on the subject, and nothing else in life appeared to hold a great deal of interest for him. The only visitors at Tower Mansion were philatelists from New York or experts desirous of appraising some new stamp that Hurd Applegate had managed to secure from some remote part of the world. It had often been said in Bayport that Hurd Applegate had accomplished only two things in life⁠—he had collected stamps and he had built a new tower on the mansion. The new tower, a duplicate of the original tower at the opposite end of the great building, had been built but a few years⁠—even well within the memory of the two Hardy boys.

She dressed in all colors of the rainbow, and her infrequent excursions into Bayport stores, when she would order the clerks about like so many soldiers, shouting at them in her high, cracked voice, had become historic on account of the wild and colorful garments she would carry off with her.

“He must have been asking Dad to take up the case,” said Frank to his brother, as soon as Hurd Applegate was out of earshot.

“Quite curious, aren’t you?” remarked Mr. Hardy, with a smile. “Well, I don’t suppose it will do any harm to tell you. The safe in the Applegate library was opened. The loss will be about forty thousand dollars, I believe.”

In a few minutes an automobile drew up before the Hardy home. Mr. Applegate was sitting in the rear seat, resting his chin on his cane. When Mr. Hardy mentioned the boys’ request he merely grunted assent, so Joe and Frank clambered into the car with their father. They were tremendously excited at the prospect of being “on the inside” in the mysterious case.

While the car bowled along over the city roads toward the Tower Mansion that was gloomily silhouetted against the sky, Mr. Hardy and Mr. Applegate discussed the robbery.

“I don’t really need a detective in this case,” snapped Hurd Applegate. “Don’t need one at all. It’s as clear as the nose on your face. I know who took the stuff. But I can’t prove it.”

“Whom do you suspect?” asked Fenton Hardy.

“Only one man in the world could have taken it. Robinson!”

“Robinson?”

“Yes. Henry Robinson⁠—the caretaker. He’s the man.”

The Hardy boys looked at one another in consternation.