use is
inhabited by those with whom you have no concern, come away unnoticed,
if possible."

Carshaw climbed the ladder, sat on the tarpaulin, and dropped the ladder
on the inner side of the wall. They heard him shaking the gate. His head
reappeared over the wall.

"Locked," he said, "and the key gone. I'll come back and report
quickly."

Jim, who had been nudged earnestly several times by his companion, cried
quickly:

"Isn't your friend goin' along, too, mister?"

"No. I may as well tell you that I am a detective," put in Steingall.

"Gee whizz! Why didn't you cough it up earlier? Hol' on, there! Lower
that ladder. I'm with you."

"Good old U. S. Army!" said Steingall, and Polly glowed with pride.

Jim climbed rapidly to Carshaw's side, the latter being astride the
wall. Then they vanished.

For a long time the two in the car listened intently. A couple of
cyclists passed, and a small boy, prowling about, took an interest in
the car, but was sternly warned off by Steingall. At last they caught
the faint but easily discerned sound of heavy blows and broken woodwork.

"Things are happening," cried Steingall. "I wish I had gone with them."

"Oh, I hope my Jim won't get hurt," said Polly, somewhat pale now.

They heard more furious blows and the crash of glass.

"Confound it!" growled Steingall. "Why didn't I go?"

"If I stood on the back of the car against the gate, and you climbed
onto my shoulders, you might manage to stand between the spikes and jump
down," cried Polly desperately.

"Great Scott, but you're the right sort of girl. The wall is too high,
but the gate is possible. I'll try it," he answered.

With difficulty, having only slight knowledge of heavy cars, he backed
the machine against the gate. Then the girl caught the top with her
hands, standing on the back cushions.

Steingall was no light weight for her soft shoulders, but she uttered no
word until she heard him drop heavily on the gravel drive within.

"Thank goodness!" she whispered. "There are three of them now. I only
wish I was there, too!"

CHAPTER XXIII

"HE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY--"

"I don't like the proposition, an' that's a fact," muttered Fowle,
lifting a glass of whisky and glancing furtively at Voles, when the
domineering eyes of the superior scoundrel were averted for a moment.

"Whether you like it or not, you've got to lump it," was the ready
answer.

"I don't see that. I agreed to help you up to a