The features mentioned, together with the broad estate covered with garden plots and shade trees, with a background of woods in the near distance, gave the entire place a rural aspect not often seen so near a large and thickly settled town.
As the runabout sped up the long driveway, Nick saw a man cleaning a large automobile just beyond the porte-cochère; but the vehicle bore no resemblance to the one in which the crooks had fled, and the circumstance did not then appeal to him with any special significance.
“Run round to the side entrance, Grady,” said he. “I’ll ask that workman who’s at home.”
Grady nodded, and presently brought the runabout to a stop under the porte-cochère.
Nick quickly sprang down and approached the man at work near-by. Instead of making any inquiry concerning the inmates of the house, however, Nick abruptly demanded:
“Have you seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road, my man?”
My man was one Jerry Conley, chauffeur, hostler, and all-round workman out of doors for Mr. Amos Badger. He was a short, stocky man, of about thirty years, with a head nearly as round as a bullet. His face was smoothly shaven, and was lighted by a pair of as shifty, crafty eyes as ever lighted a human countenance.
They came round with half a leer to meet those of the detective, while the man arose from his work on the car. Wiping his hands on his overalls, he indulged in a series of jerky nods, steadily eying Nick all the while, then deliberately inquired:
“What’s that you say?”
“I asked if you had seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road,” replied Nick, not half-liking the fellow’s looks.