“What’s happened?” he asked in alarm. “And where is Mabel? What kept her from the game? Don’t stand there dumb! Tell me, quick!”
“Now, Joe——” began Jim soothingly, but was interrupted by the injured man who opened his eyes, looked wildly around and struggled to a sitting posture. His eyes dilated with fright when he saw Joe and Jim.
“I didn’t do it!” he half screamed. “I didn’t kidnap her! It was Braxton. He——”
Jim interposed.
“Clear a space here,” he commanded. “This is a private matter for Joe and me. Now, Fleming,” he went on in short, menacing words that cut like a knife, “tell me this instant where Miss Varley is. You know. Tell me. Quick! Don’t lie, or I’ll tear your tongue out by the roots.”
Before the blazing fury in his eyes Fleming quailed.
“She’s at Inwood,” he muttered. “She’s safe enough. She’s——”
“Reggie,” commanded Jim, “jump into the car and take the wheel. Joe, help me to get this man into the car. Don’t talk. I’ll explain as we go along. Doyle,” he continued, turning to a police lieutenant who was a warm admirer of the boys and who happened to be standing near, “come along with us if you don’t mind. It may be a case for you.”
“Sure thing,” replied Doyle. “I’m with you.”
They half dragged, half carried, Fleming to the car, and Reggie put on speed. The lieutenant sat in front with him, and his uniform prevented any question on the part of the traffic policemen. Fleming, pale and apprehensive, was thrust into a corner of the tonneau, while Jim explained the situation to Joe, who was boiling with rage.