nt and made his way back to that point, just as a rabbit will
do when chased by a hound. And those two points, the start and the
finish, are close to the driveway into the million dollar estate. But of
course that doesn't prove that the car came from there. Any person could
drive to that point, begin operations, race over the square and return
to the point."

Coles Masters had platted the points for the second night. A line drawn
through these points made a figure quite irregular in form, which was,
however, composed of rectangles.

"Which proves," he told himself, "that our friend, the lawless radio
fan, drives an auto and not an airplane. An auto follows roads, which
for the most part in this section form squares. He passed along two or
three sides of these squares and this makes up the figure.

"There's only one thing in common in the two night journeys," he
continued. "The start and finish are at almost exactly the same spot,
near the entrance of that great estate."

He tried not to allow these facts to cause him to hold undue suspicion
against the inhabitants of that mansion, but in this he experienced some
difficulty.

"The thing for us to do," he had said to Joe, "is to run out there and
back our car into an unfrequented, wooded road running into the forest
preserve. We don't dare go too near the original starting place. If
we're seen with this load of junk it will give us dead away. Thing is to
be ready to move quickly when he lets loose with his message. Ought not
to be more than a mile away, I'd say. He's got a powerful car. You can
tell that by the fact that he sent a message at this corner, then raced
over here, four miles distant, and got another message off in eleven
minutes, which is quick action."

They backed into the grass-grown road of the Forest Preserve, then
settled down in their places to wait.

The night was dark. There was no moon. Clouds were scurrying overhead.
Only the rustle of leaves and the startled tweet-tweet of some bird
surprised in his sleep disturbed the utter silence of the woods.

"Ghostly," whispered Joe, then he lapsed into silence.

With his slim legs stretched out before him, Curlie was soon asleep, all
but his ears. Joe insisted that those ears never slept.

A half hour, an hour, an hour and a half dragged by. Joe had gone quite
to sleep when Curlie suddenly dug him in the ribs and uttered the
shrilly whispered warning:

"Hist! There she blows!"

A flashlight wa