"I recovered some of my own property, if that is what you mean," said Peggy slowly, a dull flush rising to her cheeks.
"Well—well! What d'ye mean by that, hey? What d'ye mean by that?"
"You may construe it any way you wish to, Mr. Harding," was the cold rejoinder, and to avoid further questioning, Peggy sped up her machine, and soon vanished in a cloud of dust.
The old financier turned to his companion with a look of disgusted amazement.
"What d'ye think of that, hey, Mortlake?" he snapped out. "What d'ye think of that? Fine young girls, eh? Nice products of the twentieth century, hey?"
"Oh, let's get on and see if we can't find that roll of papers somewhere along here," rejoined Mortlake impatiently. "I don't think it's likely they could have seen it. It must have fallen from my pocket where the car broke down and I got out."
"Hey? Oh, yes, yes. That's it. Drive on, Tom. Drive us to where the car broke down."
In a few seconds they reached the spot just in time to see the two tramps who had molested the girls making off.
"There they go!" shouted Mortlake, "those fellows must have found them. I wouldn't lose those sketches for a thousand dollars. Put on more speed, Tom, and overtake them."
The chauffeur did as he was bid, and the car leaped ahead. In a few chugs it had reached the tramps' side, they having stopped, bewildered, in the meantime.