FOLLOWING A THEORY.
Nick looked the machine over with a critical eye.
It was an ordinary, two-thousand-dollar, single-cylinder, American-made
car, and looked as though it might be able to work up considerable
speed.
It was painted red, and had the squat, sprawled-out appearance of the
ill-omened thing after which it was named.
Nick Carter could drive any kind of a car, and so could Chick.
The detectives had acquired the knowledge as they acquired everything
else which even remotely promised to be of aid to them in their work.
Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed.
“Now, then,” said Martin, “let her go!”
Nick started off in fine style, guiding the broad-tired wheels on a hair
line.
“You’ll do,” said Martin, approvingly. “I think you can run the Spider
better than Emil ever dared to. Keep along this road, right on out into
the suburbs. I’ll tell you when I want to stop.”
They reeled off about a mile before Nick got the order to halt.
The stop was made in front of a two-story brick house.
“I’ll get out here, and you can wait for me,” said Martin. “Better turn
on the electricity in the lamps, for it will be pretty dark when we
start back.”
Martin got out and went up the steps and into the house, and Nick turned
the electricity into the side lamps and settled himself back in the seat
as comfortably as he could.
Presently he became aware that a roughly dressed man, with his hands in
his trousers’ pockets, was sizing up the machine through the semigloom.
“What’s one ov them there dinguses wuth?” the man inquired.
“More than you’ll ever salt away,” answered Nick.
“I want tew knaow! Naow, mister, ef yeou’ll jist tell me----”
Nick started up suddenly in his seat, and swept a quick glance around.
“You’re taking a big risk, chief!” he muttered.
“Got an answer to that Chicago telegram, and had to see you,” the chief
replied.
“Do you often tog up like that?”
“Not often; that’s something I leave to my under-strappers. But in this
instance, as only Jerome and I know your make-up, and Jerome can’t be
spared, I decided to help you out.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Saw you come out of the hotel, and followed along on a bike that stood
at the curb.”
“Bully for you, chief!” exclaimed Nick. “That answer from Chicago got
around in short order.”
“It had the right of way, and they must have known all about this
Leonard Martin at headquarters.”
“What of him?”
“The Chicago chief says that he’s one of the shining lights of the bar,
in that place, and that some time ago he started to tour New England in
his auto, the Red Spider, with three friends. The party, at this time,
is believed to be somewhere in Vermont.”
“That all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“I think so,” returned Nick, musingly.
He was “up a stump,” so to speak.
Something was wrong, for this Chicago information did not jibe with his
own deductions--and he was ready to bank on his deductions.
“What in Sam Hill are you running that machine for?” queried the curious
chief.
“Following out a theory,” returned Nick. Then he suddenly aroused
himself. “We may be watched from the house,” said he, “and you hadn’t
ought to hang around long.”
“I’m ready to go now.”
“Wait. I’m expecting two of my assistants from New York--Chick and
Patsy. It’s ten to one that I’ll be bowling along through the country in
this machine before many hours have passed, and I want Chick and Patsy
to follow in another auto.”
“Where’ll they get the auto?”
“There’s one, subject to my order, in the Central House stable--a
machine belonging to Mr. Clarkson, one of the directors of the People’s
National Bank.”
“I know the machine well. Clarkson has been hauled up half a dozen times
for exceeding the speed limit.”
“Well, that’s the machine I want Chick and Patsy to follow with.”
“How will your assistants keep track of you?”
“Trust them for that.”
“But if the Red Spider pulls out before they get here----”
“It won’t. I’ll see that it doesn’t.”
Nick had not got quite through with the chief, but was obliged to break
off his talk at that moment.
There came the sound of a closing door from the brick house, and Martin
appeared and came down the steps to the sidewalk.
The chief did not attempt to run, but stood his ground.
“Hosses aire good enough fer me, by gosh!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t
give ye twenty-five cents fer a dozen o’ them there machines.”
Martin paid no attention to the supposed “hayseed,” beyond flashing a
curious look at him as he climbed into the auto.
“Back to the hotel, Jones,” said Martin.
“G’lang, ye rubber-tired freak!” whooped the man on the walk, as the Red
Spider started off.
“We’re going to pull out of here to-night,” observed Martin.
“Which way do we travel?”
“Never you mind which way we travel!” was the sharp response. “All you
got to do is to work the levers and steer where I tell you to.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“We’ll take the Red Spider to the barn,” went on Martin, “and then we’ll
go to the hotel.”
“Where’ll I put up?” asked Nick.
“You remember the room next to the one where you were operating this
afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it’s empty, and you can occupy that. You’re not going to get out
of my sight while we’re in town.”
Nick did not fancy this arrangement, but there was nothing else for him
to do except to proceed as Martin directed.
As they trundled into the bar, they saw another auto standing near the
door.
“Whose machine is that?” asked Martin.
“It belongs to Mr. Clarkson,” replied one of the men connected with the
stable.
It was an electric vehicle--a fact which Nick was glad to observe.
Being electric, it was practically noiseless.
The Red Spider, on the other hand, had a gasoline motor, and pounded
along in a way that would make it heard at some distance.
Chick and Patsy would thus have the advantage in the chase; they could
hear the Spider fanning along, but those on the Spider would not be able
to hear them.
On leaving the barn, Martin and Nick went upstairs to the former’s
rooms.
Nick was shown into the room on the left.
This room had a door opening upon the hall, and Martin locked it and put
the key in his pocket.
Then he ordered the detective to hand over the skeleton key which had
been of such good service several hours before.
Thinking that he now had his chauffeur just where he wanted him, Martin
went into the other chamber and threw himself down on the bed with his
clothes on.
Martin need not have worried about Nick taking “French leave.”
The detective was only too glad to be in the society of the supposed
Chicago men, and would not leave until he had satisfied himself on one
or two points.
It was about five o’clock in the morning when Nick was summoned to get
up and make ready for the start.
They did not stop for breakfast, but, as Martin said, they would get
something to eat at a town a little further on.
As they passed through the office, Nick saw a man seated in a chair, and
apparently sound asleep.
The man was Chick, and he was not so sound asleep as he seemed to be.
Martin paid his bill, and he and Nick walked out to the Red Spider,
which stood at the curb in front.
Nick cast a casual glance through the window near which Chick had been
sitting.
His chair was empty.
There were two men on the rear seat of the automobile; men who had faces
of the recognized criminal type.
Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed, the two men on the
rear seat eying him sharply.
“Start east and take the first turn to the left,” ordered Martin, “then
follow that road right out of town and into the country.”
Nick put the car in motion.
As he turned the corner he caught a glimpse of Clarkson’s machine just
rounding the hotel from the direction of the barn.
Chick and Patsy were on the seat, and Chick was doing the driving.