r.

After waiting for about half an hour, the detective began moving his
ankles and wrists gently. Gradually the ropes fell away. He reached one
hand beneath his back and grasped the automatic. Then he sat up quickly
on the couch and covered the guard.

"Put 'em up!" he commanded.

The guard whirled from the table and sprang to his feet, surprise
written on his countenance. Farland had arisen now, and advancing toward
him.

"Walk past me to the couch!" the detective commanded.

The guard started to obey. He was holding his hands above his head and
seemed to be afraid that his captor would shoot. But as he came opposite
Farland, he lurched to one side and made an attempt to grapple with him.

The detective did not fire. He sprang aside himself, swung the
automatic, and crashed it against the other man's temple. The guard
groaned once and dropped to the floor.

"Thought you might try something like that!" Jim Farland growled.
"Couldn't have pleased me better--won't have to waste time tying you up
now. You'll be dead to the world for a few minutes at least!"

Farland darted to the door, opened it, went into the hall and closed the
door again. He passed through the house noiselessly. He could hear two
men in conversation in a rear room, and he knew that he would have to be
cautious until he was at some distance from the old dwelling, unless he
wanted a battle on his hands.

He got out of the place without being discovered, and reached the edge
of a grove not far away. There he found the lane, and near the end of it
was a powerful roadster, its engine dead and its lights extinguished.

Farland listened a moment, then went forward and examined the machine.
He knew the model, and he was an excellent driver. Once more he stopped
to listen. Then he sprang behind the wheel and operated the starter.

He drove slowly down the lane, the engine almost silent, the car
traveling slowly. He proceeded in that manner until he had reached the
highway. There he switched on the lights, put on speed, and sent the
powerful car roaring along the winding road toward the river.

Jim Farland, being a modest man, never did tell the entire story of that
night. He drove like a fiend, narrowly escaping collision a score of
times. He made his way along the roads running alongside the broad
river, and finally came opposite the city. He crossed over a bridge,
drove through the streets with what speed he dared, left the car at a
public garag