Nick looked the machine over with a critical eye.
It was an ordinary, two-thousand-dollar, single-cylinder, American-made car, and looked as though it might be able to work up considerable speed.
It was painted red, and had the squat, sprawled-out appearance of the ill-omened thing after which it was named.
Nick Carter could drive any kind of a car, and so could Chick.
The detectives had acquired the knowledge as they acquired everything else which even remotely promised to be of aid to them in their work.
Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed.
“Now, then,” said Martin, “let her go!”
Nick started off in fine style, guiding the broad-tired wheels on a hair line.
“You’ll do,” said Martin, approvingly. “I think you can run the Spider better than Emil ever dared to. Keep along this road, right on out into the suburbs. I’ll tell you when I want to stop.”
They reeled off about a mile before Nick got the order to halt.