“Mary!” he ejaculated. “Mary—where were you?”
“Mr. Loveman pushed me into the pantry and locked the door.”
“I see,” said Clifford rapidly. “Their plan against you would now not help them—you were now just excess baggage to them—and they merely wanted to get you out of the way for a while.”
There was no time then for fuller explanations. “We’re just starting after Loveman and Jack.”
Mr. Morton had moved toward them. “Mary,” he said, his voice steady only through great effort, “I’d like to have you go along to help bring Jack back—if Mr. Clifford doesn’t mind.”
She hesitated, then glanced questioningly at Clifford. Clifford nodded.
“All right,” she agreed.
“Here’s where I resign,” said Uncle George—“on the grounds that I’m too old, that I’m too fat, that I’m not needed, and that there’s no room for me. The best of luck to you!”
“Thanks, Uncle George!” And Clifford gripped his hand.
They hurried into the long, low, gray car—the car which was to have borne Mary upon that cunningly devised saturnalia. “Jimmie, if you don’t mind, sit in front with Slim Harrison,” said Clifford, and himself took the rear seat with Mr. Morton, Mary between them. He leaned forward and spoke with harsh dominance into Slim’s ear. “Slim, I know this is a great machine, and I know that when you want to be you’re a great driver—and understand this, your only chance of getting out of this affair halfway easy is for you to get us to Greenport not later than the car ahead. Now, turn her loose.”