When they were all seated again in the drawing-room, Jack turned to Vaughn Crowell.
“Suppose you tell your story first, Mr. Crowell,” he suggested.
The young man acquiesced, sullenly.
“As some of the girls no doubt expected,” he began, “Milt and I got our car and followed them back to the east. But they never camped at night, and they never seemed to get far enough away from some other car to let us plan a delay.”
“A delay?” interrupted his aunt, sharply. “You actually meant to prevent the girls from making their trip?”
“Yes—we did,” admitted the young man.
“But why? Just for a joke?”
“Yes, of course!” put in Milton, hastily, grasping at the suggestion. “We thought it would be fun to give them a scare in some way. They were so cocksure of themselves—”
“Pardon me!” interrupted John, in a tone of disgust, “but there is not a word of truth in that statement. We caught your brother and forced a confession from him, his alternative being that we would hand him over to the police for stealing the girls’ car! So please allow him to go on with his story.”
“But your motive?” persisted the old lady.