THE FINISH
Dick was no ordinary horse. He was an unusual horse who had very unusual
masters. The young policeman had spoken the truth when he said that Pat
O'Hara's horse was the smartest on the force. As Dick felt his young
mistress in the saddle and the man in gray behind her, he realized that
this was not to be a race, but a fight. He seemed to sense that his task
was to keep in sight of that racing blue automobile, and not for one
instant to lose sight of it.
Follow it he did, and that at the peril of his own life and the lives of
those who rode. Now dashing past a low, closed car, now crowding between
two black sedans, now all but run down by a great yellow car, he forged
straight ahead.
He not only followed; he actually gained. Leaning far forward in the
saddle, Cordie kept her eyes upon the fleeing car. Now they were but
three quarters of a block away, now a half, now a quarter.
It was an exciting moment. Beads of perspiration stood out upon the tip
of Cordie's nose. The hand that held the reins trembled. They were
gaining, gaining, gaining. Through narrow passages impossible to a car,
old Dick crowded forward like a fleet, sure-footed dog. Now a yard he
gained, now a rod, and now a long stretch of open. They were gaining,
gaining, gaining! What were they to do once the car was overtaken? That
Cordie could not tell. She only knew one thing clearly--the men in the
car must not escape and she was determined to prevent their escape.
Then, as they neared a cross street, a man stepped out on the running
board and flashed an automatic. Aiming deliberately, he fired. The next
instant, with the din of a hundred sets of brakes screaming in their
ears, Cordie, the horse and the man in gray were piled all in a heap in
the middle of the street.
In the midst of all this there came a crash. What was that? Dared she
hope it was the villains' car? At sound of it the man in gray was up and
away like mad.
"What's this?" she heard an unfamiliar voice saying. A man from the
nearest car behind them had come to the aid of the girl and the horse.
* * * * * * * *
In the meantime, Lucile was passing through experiences quite as strange.
Laurie Seymour had been knocked unconscious by a blow on the head.
Patrick O'Hara had been shot from his horse. How serious were the
injuries of these, her friends?
To determine this, then to see what might be done for their relief; this
appeared to be her duty, even though Cordie was in grave danger still.
Men pressed forward to assist her. They carried the unconscious ones into
the lobby of a hotel. There they were stretched out upon davenports and
remedies applied by the house physician.
Lucile was engaged in stopping the flow of blood from Patrick O'Hara's
scalp wound. She chanced to look up and there, at the edge of the
davenport, she caught sight of a familiar face.
"Miss Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Two Hundred in
gold!" her mind registered automatically, but her fingers held rigidly to
their task.
* * * * * * * *
As Cordie struggled to her feet, after being plunged from the back of the
fallen horse, she saw the man in gray leap for the side of an automobile
that had crashed into the curb. A thrill ran through her as she realized
that this was the blue racer. The next instant, after fairly tearing the
door from the hinges, the man in gray dragged a man out of the blue car,
threw him to the pavement and held him rigidly there.
There came the clatter of horse's hoofs, and then down sprang good old
Tim, the police sergeant, and his fellow officer.
"He's a bad one," growled the one in gray. "If you've got handcuffs, put
'em on him."
Tim hesitated. How was an officer to know who was in the right? This
might be but a Christmas Eve fight. He had not witnessed the beginning of
this affair.
A hand tugged at his sleeve. "If you please, Tim," came a girlish voice,
"It's me, the one who stole Patrick O'Hara's horse. If you'll believe me
you better take his word for it. He's right."
"Oh, he is, eh?" rumbled Tim. "Little girl, what you say goes. I'd trust
you any time. On they go."
The hawk-eyed man, for it was he that had been captured (his accomplice
had vanished) made one more desperate effort to escape, but failed. The
handcuffs were snapped on and he was led away by the younger officer.
"Now," said Tim in a sterner voice, "tell me how Pat O'Hara's horse comes
to be lyin' there in the street?"
"He--he shot him," Cordie gulped, pointing away toward the hawk-eyed man.
"He did, did he? Then he should be hung."
"Pat--Patrick O'Hara's sho--shot too," Cordie was very near to tears. "If
it hadn't been for him," she nodded to the figure in gray, "we--we
wouldn't have got him, though Dick and I would have done our--our best,
for he--he shot our good good friend Pat O'Hara." At this, Cordie's long
pent up tears came flooding forth as she hid her face on good old Tim's
broad breast.
"That's all right," he soothed, patting her on the shoulders. "It's not
as bad as you think. Look! There's old Dick getting to his feet now."
It was true. The man in gray had walked over to where Dick lay, had
coaxed the horse to get up, and was now leading him limping to the curb.
"It's only a flesh wound in the leg," he explained. "Give him a week or
ten days and he'll be on the beat again. Dick, old boy," he said huskily,
"and you too, dear little Cordie, I want to thank you for what you've
done for me. I--I've had my revenge, if a man has a right to revenge. And
it might be they'll find the fox skins among his plunder."
The eyes of the man in gray, just now brimming with honest tears, were
turned toward Cordie. It was James, the seaman and bundle carrier!
For a moment he gripped the girl's hand, then turning to Tim, said:
"You'll look after her? See that she gets safely back to her friends?"
"Oh sure! Sure!"
"Then I'll be getting over to the police station. They'll be wanting
someone to prefer charges."
He was turning to go, but Cordie called him back. Handing him a slip of
paper on which she had scribbled a number and an address, she said:
"Call me on the phone at that number to-morrow, or else at the Butler
House before midnight. I want to know whether you get those wonderful
silver fox skins back. I--might have a customer for them if you do."
"It would make a great little old Christmas for me if I did," he smiled.
"But it's going to be all right anyway."
Reading the address Cordie had given him, James gave a great start.
"Right on the Gold Coast!" was his mental comment. "Out where there is
nothing but palaces and mansions!"