Peggy made some reply. She didn’t know just what. Her mind was throbbing with the idea that Roy’s inexplicable absence meant that harm had come to him, and that even if he were safe the advancing of the hour of the race would put them out of it if he did not make haste.
“Look, there goes Banker of the Philadelphia Polytechnic, and Rayburn of the Boston Tech,” cried Jimsy the next instant as a biplane and a graceful white-winged monoplane shot aloft on trial trips, their motors exploding loudly and a tail of blue smoke streaming out behind them. A slight cheer came from the grand stands, which were already beginning to fill, as the boy aviators shot upward.
“Oh, Roy! Roy, where are you?” sighed Peggy to herself, as she watched the young aspirants for aerial honors swinging around the course.
“I’m going over to the stand and ’phone to the police station,” said Jimsy presently; “they may have news of him over there by this time.”
“Oh, yes, please do,” cried Peggy, as Jimsy hastened off.
When he had gone the two girls turned troubled countenances to each other.
“You poor honey,” cried Jess, “I know how you are suffering. But don’t worry, Peggy, I’m sure it will come out all right.”
“Yes, but—but you don’t know what depends on Roy’s winning this race,” cried Peggy. “I am sure that some of our rivals in the race—I need not mention who—have something to do with his disappearance.”
“What do you mean by saying ‘a lot depends on it,’ girlie?” asked Jess, drawing Peggy’s arm within her own.
With brimming eyes Peggy told her friend frankly and fully what she had not before, namely, the exact circumstances of the Prescott family and the threat which old Harding held above their heads.