They dashed along the straight white road in silence, Betty wondering rather anxiously how Jasper J. Morton would receive them, Mr. Blake intent on his work, until suddenly he gave an impatient little exclamation, and slowing down, leaned forward to listen to his engine.
“The gasoline can’t be low,” he muttered angrily. “I took her to be filled myself and Bob just ran her around the town a bit afterward.” He went slower still to make sure. “It is low,” he told Betty dejectedly. “It’s horribly low. We shall be lucky if we catch him where he is now. If he starts on we’re lost.”
“Oh, well, perhaps he won’t start on,” said Betty cheerfully, “at least not if we hurry.”
Dick started the car again. “I say, but you’re game,” he declared admiringly. “A good many girls would dislike the charming prospect of having to go home in a Brittany farm-wagon.” He squinted at the big car ahead. “Jasper J. can’t take us back. He’s punctured one of his back tires. He’ll be in an angelic mood to receive us.”
Betty gave a nervous little laugh. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Mr. Blake sighed. “I oughtn’t to have brought you, Miss Wales—I don’t see how I ever thought of such a foolish scheme. But now that you’re here you’re just to sit in the car, while I go and inquire the way to the nearest gasoline supply, and incidentally, as I inquire, discover that I’m talking to a man I want most awfully to see. It’s all going to be beautiful and casual, and I shall refer to you only if everything else fails.”
By this time they were very near Mr. Morton’s car, and their own was crawling so slowly that Mr. Blake drew it up by the roadside and, tooting his horn a few times by way of encouraging Mr. Morton to wait for him, started briskly off to his interview.
“You’ll be in plain sight of us,” he told Betty, “so you can’t get lonely, and you can have oceans of fun watching Jasper J. turn me down—or try to.”
Betty, watching him go, wished she had thought it fair to tell him about the railroad presidents who were waiting at Dol. “But I couldn’t do that,” she reflected. “I’m afraid I’ve told him too much as it is.”
Meanwhile there was a good deal of excitement at the Dinard Casino—the “high-life Casino,” so read the tickets of admission and the placard by the door. It wasn’t about Betty; Mrs. Hildreth and the girls had been wondering about her non-appearance, but they had scarcely reached the worrying stage as yet. The excitement had to do with a scandal in “high-life.” A young Frenchman had driven his car in from a near-by château, had barely stepped inside the Casino, and come back to find the car gone. He had immediately borrowed a racing machine and rushed off in hot pursuit, leaving the Casino piazzas agog with strange rumors. These flew about chiefly in French, but Madeline and Babbie caught snatches and told the others. The most picturesque detail was the fact that the Casino’s porter had stood unsuspectingly and watched the thief and his confederate, a pretty young girl, drive off. The girl had come and stood on the steps,—looking in, supposedly, to make sure that the coast was clear. She was English or perhaps American, was young, with curly golden hair, was dressed all in white, and had nothing of the air of the adventuress about her. Madeline and Babbie exchanged bewildered glances, suppressed some details, and covertly assured each other that Betty was too old and too sensible to let herself be kidnapped in broad daylight. And how otherwise should she be helping to steal automobiles? It was too ridiculous!