CHAPTER XXXIX
MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE
It was that same voice that had brought Michael Brixan racing across the garden to the postern gate. A car stood outside, its lights dimmed. Standing by its bonnet was a frightened little brown man who had brought the machine to the place.
“Where is your master?” asked Michael quickly.
The man pointed.
“He went that way,” he quavered. “There was a devil in the big machine—it would not move when he stamped on the little pedal.”
Michael guessed what had happened. At the last moment, by one of those queer mischances which haunt the just and the unjust, the engine had failed him and he had fled on foot.
“Which way did he go?”
Again the man pointed.
“He ran,” he said simply.
Michael turned to the detective who was with him.