“Just as though he were an honest man,” muttered Halstead, indignantly.
Often, indeed, was the young motor boat skipper tempted to try the lifting of the lid of the seat enough to look at the country through which they were now passing. But the risk that Justin Bolton might be taking a backward glance at the same moment seemed too great.
Twice, as sounds told, they passed other automobiles headed in the opposite direction. Peeping through the narrow crevice that he had made with his knife-end—an opening that was concealed by the overlapping cushions—Halstead saw that daylight was now rapidly waning.
Twenty minutes later it was fully dark. The car now turned off the soft road over which it had been running, to a more gravelly road. Then the car stopped altogether.
“All well, sir?” hailed a voice that made Halstead start. The tones were those of that red-haired young man, Rexford.
“Not quite all well,” replied the voice of Bolton, though the speaker seemed hardly worried. “We ran into that young captain of the ‘Rocket,’ Halstead, and into another young fellow, a human cyclone. They know something of our game, but they were glad enough to get away from us.”
Calvin Rexford gave vent to a low, prolonged whistle of amazement.
“However,” Bolton continued, “they don’t know enough of what we’re doing to spoil our enterprise. As I said, we got rid of them.”