A decent sympathy would no doubt have become me, but from earliest years I had always found it difficult to resist the temptation to be airy and jocose when dealing with Looney Coote. The man was so indecently rich that he had no right to have troubles. “Oh, well,” I said, “you can easily get another. Fords cost practically nothing nowadays.” “It wasn’t a Ford,” bleated Looney, outraged. “It was a brand-new Winchester-Murphy. I paid fifteen hundred pounds for it only a month ago, and now it’s gone.” “Where did you see it last?” “I didn’t see it last. My chauffeur brought it round to my rooms this morning, and, instead of staying with it as he should have done till I was ready, went off round the corner for a cup of coffee, so he says! And when he came back it had vanished.” “The coffee?” “The car, you ass. The car had disappeared. It had been stolen.” “I suppose you have notified the police?” “I’m on my way to Scotland Yard now. It just occurred to me. Have you any idea what the procedure is? It’s the first time I’ve been mixed up with this sort of thing.” “You give them the number of the car, and they send out word to police-stations all over the country to look out for it.” “I see,” said Looney Coote, brightening. “That sounds rather promising, what? I mean, it looks as if someone would be bound to spot it sooner or later.” “Yes,” I said. “Of course, the first thing a thief would do would be to take off the number-plate and substitute a false one.” “Oh, Great Scott! Not really?” “And after that he would paint the car a different colour.” “Oh, I say!” “Still, the police generally manage to find them in the end. Years hence they will come on it in an old barn with the tonneau stoved in and the engines taken out. Then they will hand it back to you and claim the reward. But, as a matter of fact, what you ought to be praying is that you may never get it back. Then the thing would be a real misfortune. If you get it back as good as new in the next couple of days, it won’t be a misfortune at all, and you will have number three hanging over your head again, just as before. And who knows what that third misfortune may be? In a way, you’re tempting Providence by applying to Scotland Yard.” “Yes,” said Looney Coote, doubtfully. “All the same, I think I will, don’t you know. I mean to say, after all, a fifteen-hundred-quid Winchester-Murphy _is_ a fifteen-hundred-quid Winchester-Murphy, if you come right down to it, what?” Showing that even in the most superstitious there may be grains of hard, practical common sense lurking somewhere.