"Come on," he said briefly.
"Where—where are we going?" quavered Betty, a little in awe of this stern new Bob with the resolute chin.
"To the police recorder's," was the uncompromising reply.
The recorder was young and possessed of plenty of what Bob termed "pep," and when he heard what Bob had to tell him, for Betty was stricken with sudden dumbness, he immediately mapped out a plan that should catch all the wrong-doers in one net.
"The fellow we want to get hold of is this truck driver," he explained. "You didn't hear his name?"
Betty shook her head.
"Well, to get him, our men will have to wait till he comes for the crates," said the recorder. "I'll send a couple of 'em out to this farm—they know the old D. Smith place well enough—and they can hang around till the truck comes and then take 'em all in. I'm sorry, but I'll have to hold the girl here as a witness. My wife will look after her, and she'll be all right."
"I'll stay, too, Betty," Bob promised her hastily, noting the plea in her eyes.
"All right, so much the better," said the recorder heartily. "We'll put you both up for the night. It won't be necessary for you to see the prisoners to-night, and to-morrow you'll both be mighty good witnesses for this Mr. Peabody. I'll send for him in the morning."