CHAPTER XVI.
THE TIRE PRINTS.
Jack Cray barely avoided a sudden start at that last remark of Mrs. Simpson’s. He had been hoping for some light on the electric car, but had thought it improbable that he would find any clew at the fugitive’s home.
“So he’s a fool at times, is he?” he thought. “Good enough! That ought to make things easier.”
“So the bug caught him, too, did it?” he asked aloud, with a careless smile. “Did he buy a machine?”
“Oh, no, sir! He rented one in the village, but his idea was to buy one as soon as he could afford it. In fact, he has had a gate made in the back fence, and one of those little, portable garages put up.”
“He meant to enjoy himself, didn’t he?” Cray asked lightly, though the role he was obliged to play was becoming more and more irksome. “There’s a driveway at the side of the house, though, isn’t there? I thought I noticed one as I came in.”
“Yes, there is,” Mrs. Simpson agreed. “That was another queer thing. I didn’t see how in the world John was going to afford a car—even a secondhand one, as he talked of buying—but if he was going to have one, I didn’t see why it should not be driven in from the front, since that was what the drive was made for. He wouldn’t hear of it, though.”
“Why not?”
“He said he was going to drive his own car, and he didn’t want everybody to be watching him and criticizing the way he was doing it. He thought he would prefer to come in the back way, where there wouldn’t be so many spectators. That was ridiculous, though, because you can see for yourself that there are not many people living here on the hill. Besides, he would soon have learned to drive well enough not to mind if he were watched.”