This was just what an excited young Frenchman, having stopped his racing car with a skilful turn close beside her, and caught her attention by a low bow and a deferential “Pardon, Madame,” was demanding of her in rapid-fire French, which dazzled poor Betty’s mind into absolute blankness.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” she said sadly at last. “That is, Jé ne comprend pas. If you can’t speak English, you’d better ask Mr. Blake. Demandez à ce monsieur.” She pointed ahead.
“Ah!” The Frenchman’s black eyes flashed with pleasure as he noticed Mr. Blake. He turned to a man in uniform in the tonneau and they conversed in more rapid-fire French, after which the man in uniform jumped out of the Frenchman’s car and then with another “Pardon, Madame,” calmly climbed into Betty’s. This was strange enough, but the effect of the Frenchman’s communication on Mr. Blake, who spoke French like a native, was even stranger. He listened a minute, asked a quick question, and then started on the run toward Betty, with Jasper J. Morton panting behind him. When Mr. Blake started, the man in uniform hopped nimbly out and stood in the middle of the road, as if to intercept his passage, and when he rushed around to the back of the car the man in uniform was instantly beside him.
“It’s true, all right,” he told Betty a minute later, coming around to her side. “Oh, you didn’t understand? He says I’ve stolen a car, and I have. That’s not Bob’s number. This car is absolutely like his in every other way—except for the lack of gasoline and the different coat, of course. And how was I to know that Bob hadn’t squandered his gasoline and bought a new coat?”
“Miss B. A.! Are you here?” cried Mr. Morton, coming up behind Dick. “Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to explain. This gentleman asked me to lend him gasoline enough to get to a garage, and instead of waiting for my answer he begins to jabber French and then runs off like a madman.”
“Why, we’ve stolen a car,” explained Betty. “That is, Mr. Blake took the wrong one by mistake, and these people thought he did it on purpose.”
“Took the wrong car by mistake,” muttered Mr. Morton. “Well, I don’t doubt it, since you vouch for the gentleman, but otherwise it would look very black to me. Is he given to making mistakes of that sort?”
“Oh, no,” cried Betty quickly. “But you see we were in such a hurry, and I suppose he was pretty much excited because it was his last chance and so important and all——”
“Wait a minute,” commanded Mr. Morton peremptorily. “I don’t follow you. What was your tremendous hurry? What was the gentleman’s last chance that it was of the utmost importance he should utilize?”
“Oh, hadn’t he told you?” asked Betty. “But of course he hadn’t had time to. Why—please don’t be angry, Mr. Morton, but we were chasing you. Mr. Blake’s newspaper sent him over here to interview you, and he has missed you ever so many times, and he couldn’t stay any longer than to-day.” She paused to see what the effect of her announcement would be.