Bag Ears was on the move again, striding in the direction of the gate. We hurried to catch up. "That babe's poison," he told us. "Any skirt that'd flock with Hands McCaffery is poison. I'll tell you kids what I'd do. If she drives south—I'd drive north. Goodbye now."
Just at that moment a big blue sports roadster pushed a bright chromium nose around the corner of the house. I took a firm grip on Bag Ears' collar, grabbed Joy by the arm, and the three of us leaped behind a bush. The car rolled past us. We saw the blonde behind the wheel and Uncle Peter seated beside her, evidently still protesting the hasty exodus.
But the girl looked very sharp and businesslike; the way a girl would look who knew where she was going and why. The car picked up speed and swung north.
"I wonder," Joy murmured, "how Uncle Peter happened to select Hands McCaffery's girl friend as his assistant."
"She was a burlycue queen last time I heard of her," Bag Ears said. "Still is, I guess."
"That could explain it," I told Joy. "You see, Uncle Peter has—ah, facets to his personality. A tendency to admire women. Ah—"
"Women—period; isn't that what you mean?"
"Well, it would be perfectly logical for Uncle Peter to select an assistant from the stage of a burlesque theater."
"Enough of this," Joy snapped. "We're wasting time. Go get—oh, never mind! Wait here."