e there was little traffic and the driver could see far
ahead, he pressed his foot on the accelerator and the great car went
roaring through the street at more than thirty miles an hour. And as
they drew closer and closer to the open country, the man at the wheel
rushed them on faster and faster. In vain Willie looked at the
sign-posts. The car darted past them with baffling speed. But Willie
wanted to know where he was.

"What street are we on now?" he asked, leaning toward the driver.

"The Boston Post Road," said the driver, without turning his head.

Captain Hardy caught the name and his eyes flashed. "The Boston Post
Road!" he repeated. "Does this go anywhere near New Rochelle?"

"Right through it," said the driver, "only they call it Main Street
within the town limits."

"Does it pass near Echo Bay?"

"It's the very road that meets the arm of the bay."

Captain Hardy turned from the driver to the other secret service men.
"Can you think of anything that would connect the name of Revere with
the point where the bay touches this road?"

"By George!" cried one of the men. "You've hit it exactly. I had
forgotten all about it, but there's a stone marker in a wee bit of a
park, put up to commemorate the passage of Paul Revere on his famous
ride. He came down this very road, and that marker is almost at the
exact spot where the road touches the arm of the bay."

"Good!" said the captain. "That is probably the place."

"Beyond a doubt. It's the logical place, too, come to think of it.
For if a fellow drove into Huguenot Park and found that somebody was
trailing him, he couldn't get away. He'd be bottled up. But if he
stuck to the Boston Post Road, he'd have all New England to run to.
What's more, there's a road-house near by, where cars can be left.
Things couldn't have been made to order any better."

"Then I guess our course is clear," said the other agent. "We'll leave
our car near by and find good hiding-places close to the water at this
point."

Meantime, the motor-boat, breasting the waves as though striving for a
speed prize, had borne Henry and Roy and their older companions rapidly
back over the path they had so recently traversed. Up the East River
the craft went roaring, under the great bridges, that at night seemed
only strings of fairy lights arching the stream, past prison walls and
towering tenements, and on to the swirling rapids so recently visited.

The two boys paid little