The chauffeur, a hose in one hand, a big sponge in the other, and wearing
high rubber boots, looked up inquiringly.
"What are you doing up so early?" he asked.
"Where did the car come from?" demanded Bob.
Heinrich straightened up and gazed at Bob.
"What you mean?" he inquired.
"Who brought the car home?"
"How do I know? Maybe your father use it last night. Whoever do it, get
it all covered mit dust."
"But," stammered Bob, "the car was stolen."
"What!" exclaimed Heinrich. "What you talking about?"
"What time did you get in last night?" Bob inquired, becoming more and
more anxious and bewildered every moment.
"Twelve o'clock," said Heinrich. "What you mean the car iss stolen?"
"Was it here when you came home?"
"Certainly it was here. What you talking about?"
"I don't know," said Bob weakly, and he sat down on the running board and
passed his hand across his brow.
"Are you sick?" asked Heinrich anxiously. "You look pale."
"I'm not sick," said Bob. "I guess I'm crazy," and he held his head in
both hands, staring blankly at the floor.
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