“You and a New York reporter chasing me in a stolen automobile! A pretty story that would make!” Jasper J. Morton’s tone was deeply indignant. Then he looked from Betty’s solemn face to Mr. Blake, who was hot from his run and his valiant efforts to convince the Dinard police sergeant of his innocence, then at the Frenchman, alert and smiling, as he awaited the outcome of the discussion, and his eyes began to twinkle. “Does he know about those railroad presidents in Dol?” he demanded, jerking his thumb toward Mr. Blake.
Betty explained that she hadn’t considered herself at liberty to tell Mr. Blake that.
“Just chased me on general principles,” he chuckled. “Well, I’ve been chased pretty hard sometimes, but never by a pretty girl in a stolen automobile, so far as I remember. Hi there, young man,” he raised his voice. “Come over here and tell me how all this happened.” Then, as Dick deserted the sergeant, he added, “Miss B. A. here is trying to make me think that I’m to blame.”
Dick laughed. “Then I suppose she’s told you that it was awfully important to me to see you. If I could just ask you a few questions, Mr. Morton, before I go back with this man, I should be everlastingly obliged. He insists on putting me under arrest. I’ve got a friend in Dol who’ll go bail for me, but until then the best I can do is to make him let Miss Wales off.” He smiled dejectedly at Betty.
“Put you under arrest, indeed!” sniffed Jasper J. Morton. “Why, it was a clear case of mistake, wasn’t it? She says it was. You’ve got a friend who’s got a car like that, haven’t you? You can show ’em—the car and the friend—as soon as we get into Dinard. You’ll ride back with me, both of you, if my man ever gets that puncture mended.” Jasper J. Morton pulled out a roll of fifty-franc notes and flourished them at the sergeant, who was staring uncomprehendingly. “How much do you want, my good fellow? I’ll go bail, or whatever you please to call it. Ask him how much he wants, Miss B. A. Where’s your dictionary? No,” as Mr. Blake started forward, “you wait a minute. She’ll manage him best.”
So Betty explained what Mr. Morton wanted, with frequent promptings from that impatient gentleman; and the sergeant, accepting a small fee “for the accommodation,” agreed to take the gentleman’s word and his friend’s word that they would both appear in court at Dinard, if, after the aggrieved Frenchman had seen Mr. Bob’s car and interviewed its owner, he was not willing to accept Mr. Blake’s apology and withdraw his suit. As a matter of fact, all the Frenchman wanted was his car back unharmed; he had brought the police sergeant only in case of emergency. And as the policeman couldn’t drive a car, he was glad to accept Mr. Morton’s offer that his chauffeur, who had at last finished repairing the tire, should put in enough gasoline from his machine to carry the stalled car to a garage and should then drive it back to Dinard.
“I’m going to drive mine myself,” Mr. Morton announced. “That’s another thing that my doctor told me not to do, you know. Blake, get in behind with Miss B. A.”
But Betty protested that she was tired and wanted the tonneau to herself. As a matter of fact, she was sure that if Mr. Blake and Mr. Morton rode together, Mr. Morton would never be able to resist telling about the railroad presidents cooped up in Dol waiting for him. And sure enough, it was only a few minutes before she heard him say, “That’ll make a great story, you know. Sleepy French town—nothing happened there for centuries—doesn’t know the meaning of high finance. Americans choose it as neutral ground on which to discuss biggest traffic coup in history. Wall Street feels the shock. Oh, I suppose you can turn out that sort of thing much better than I can. You come over to Dol and see the fun. I’ll introduce you as my secretary. Can you act a little like a secretary?”
After a while she heard him ask, “Do you always chase everything you want as hard as you chased me? I like to see a man chase hard.”
Madeline and Babe were on the Casino steps waiting to get the first possible sight of the crowd coming up from the ferry, for if Betty didn’t come on this boat they were all going back to Saint Malo in the hope of finding her there. But before Betty, assisted by Mr. Blake and Mr. Morton, had finished explaining herself, the Frenchman, who had waited to pilot his own car to a garage, came up, and Madeline deserted her friends to rush at him with such a friendly greeting and such a torrent of questions in French, that she immediately became the centre of interest.