She was correct. The freckled-faced fellow who had been Mr. Jim Brady’s chauffeur was driving the re-stolen automobile, while the ugly man sat beside him. The latter turned around and laughed at the excited boy and girl as the runabout swerved into the road and took the direction of the railroad at a fast clip.
“Oh, dear me! what will Mrs. Heard say?” gasped Agnes.
“What will Mr. Collinger say? That’s more to the point,” growled Neale. “Who would have thought that those fellows were around here? And there’s the can they brought with them. Gasoline, of course. They didn’t have to use it, for the tank of the runabout is nearly full.”
“What shall we do, Neale?” cried Agnes.
Neale was practical, when once he recovered from his first amazement. He dashed into the barn and swung open the big doors.
“They didn’t see our car,” he cried. “And let me tell you they can’t get away from it. I can drive our car much faster than they can run that little one—believe me!”
He tried the starter, glanced into the gas tank, and then got in behind the steering wheel.
“Well, Neale O’Neil!” cried Agnes. “You’re not going alone—not much!”
As the car started she swung herself aboard. Neale said, hastily:
“I don’t know about your going with me, Aggie. There may be trouble——”