eet-car?

There seemed no immediate answer to the conundrums. So, he nonchalantly
clambered into the car, after cranking it. The mechanism seemed in
perfect order. Puzzled, he started to speed up the street, when he
observed a white envelope close by his foot, on the floor of the car.

He picked it up, and tearing it open quickly read this simple message.

"To whom it may concern: It is frequently advisable to mind your own
business--is it not? Answer: Yes!"

"Huh," grunted Shirley. "While not thrilling in originality, it is a
lasting truth which nobody can deny. I'll save this and frame it on the
walls of my rooms."

As he drove around the corner and up the Avenue, there was suddenly a
terrific explosion, which threw him completely out of the machine!
The car, without a driver, its engines whirring madly, dashed into a
helpless corner fruit stand, scattering oranges, bananas, apples and
desolation in its wake, as it vainly endeavored to climb to the second
story with super-mechanical intelligence! Shirley, stunned and bruised,
fell to the pavement where he lay until an excited patrolman rushed to
his rescue.

A little "first aid" work brought Shirley back to consciousness, and he
stiffly rose to his feet, with a head throbbing too much for any real
thinking.

"What's the matter with your auto?" cried the policeman. "Can't you run
it? Let's see the number." The officer took out his notebook, to jot
down the details according to police rules. Then he turned on Shirley in
amazement. "Be gorry, it's car 99835 N.Y. I just wrote the number down
when I came on post with my squad! This car is stolen. You come with
me!"

Shirley had been adjusting the mechanism, and the wheels had ceased
their whirring. He tried to expostulate in a dazed way, realizing that
for once the department was working with a vengeful promptness. He was
hoist by his own petard!

"I'm the owner of the car," he began, rubbing his aching forehead.

"What's yer name?"

"Montague Shirley!" The policeman laughed, as he caught the
criminologist by the shoulder, and blew his whistle for another man from
post duty.

"You lie. This car is owned by James Merrivale. You can't put over
raw stuff like that on me. I'm no rookie--Here, Joe," (as the other
policeman ran up through the growing, jeering crowd,) "watch this
machine. This guy's one of them auto Raffles, and I done a good job when
I lands him. I'm going to the station-house now."

The other