d, but faced the situation quite
pleasantly.

"You may as well remain here," he said. "I may want you, and you should
realize without giving further trouble that you cannot hide from the
police. Come, Mr. Carshaw, we have work before us in East Orange. Miss
Winifred should be all right by this time."

Rachel Craik actually laughed. She wondered why she had lost faith in
Voles for an instant.

"I'll send a doctor," went on Steingall composedly. "Your friend there
needs one, I guess."

"I'd sooner have a six-shooter," roared Mick the Wolf.

"Doctors are even more deadly sometimes."

So the detective took his defeat cheerfully, and that is the worst thing
a man can do--in his opponent's interests. He was rather silent as he
trudged with Carshaw and the others back to the train, however.

He was asking himself what new gibe Clancy would spring on him when the
story of the night's fiasco came out.

CHAPTER XXV

FLANK ATTACKS

Somewhat tired, having ridden that day to Poughkeepsie and back, Petch,
nevertheless, put up a great race after the fleeing motor-car.

His muscles were rejuvenated by Polly Barnard's exciting news and no
less by admiration for the girl herself. Little thinking that Jim, the
plumber, was performing deeds of derring-do in the hall of Gateway
House, he congratulated himself on the lucky chance which enabled him to
oblige the fair Polly. He dashed into the road to Hoboken, and found, to
his joy, that the dust raised by the passage of the car gave an
unfailing clue to its route. Now, a well-regulated motor-cycle can run
rings round any other form of automobile, no matter how many horses may
be pent in the cylinders, if on an ordinary road and subjected to the
exigencies of traffic.

Voles, break-neck driver though he was, dared not disregard the traffic
regulations and risk a smash-up. He got the best out of the engine, but
was compelled to go steadily through clusters of houses and around
tree-shaded corners. To his great amazement, as he was tearing through
the last habitations before crossing the New Jersey flats, he was hailed
loudly from behind:

"Hi, you--pull up!"

He glanced over his shoulder. A motor-cyclist, white with dust, was
riding after him with tremendous energy.

"Hola!" cried Voles, snatching another look. "What's the matter?"

Petch should have temporized, done one of a hundred things he thought of
too late; but he was so breathless after the terrific sprint i