"That man," she said, "has stopped at a small shed—"
"That's the constable's hang-out," remarked Duncan. "I had to stop there once—just once," and the thought was evidently funny, for he laughed boyishly.
"Yes," went on Cora, "there is some one talking to him. Oh, Duncan," and she clutched his arm nervously, "do tell Tom to drive slowly past there, for I think I know that man."
"Go slow, Tom," called Duncan carelessly. "We might be held up. Just let me take the glasses, Cora."
He peered through the strong lenses. "The other car has gone on," he said. "Perhaps the cop is a friend of your friend's"; and again he laughed, much to Cora's discomfort.
On and on the machine flew. Finally they were within a few rods of the little shed by the roadside. A man on a motor-cycle was waiting. As the Bennet car came up he shot out into the center of the road.
Duncan did not mistake his intention. Tom turned his head and gave the other a meaning look. Then the chauffeur slowed down—slower and slower.
"Stop!" called the man on the motor-cycle, at the same moment dismounting from his wheel.
Tom almost stopped. Cora thought he had turned off the gasoline, but the next moment he had shot past the surprised officer, and was going at a madder pace than ever.
Cora was frightened. Some motor-cycles can beat ordinary automobiles; she knew that. But Duncan was laughing. If only that man, Reed, was not on the same road just then.