Tom started up at as fast a pace as he thought was prudent. He had no intention of wrecking the Flying Road Racer to please his captors. All this time Jake. Rook kept the muzzle of the pistol pressed to the lad’s neck. Tom could feel the disc of steel burning into his flesh, and no one can blame him for shuddering a bit as he realized the sort of man who was at the other end of the weapon.
They drove straight on for a mile or so without encountering a single other vehicle. At last they reached a point where a road branched off from the main thoroughfare.
“Turn off here,” ordered Rook gruffly.
Tom, perforce, changed the course of the Flying Road Racer, and they began to bump along over what seemed to be a very rough and little used road. The white rays of the searchlight showed dark trees on each side of the track, meeting in an arch overhead.
It was like driving through a leafy tunnel. But Tom wasn’t paying much attention to scenery right then. All he realized was that, in the very moment when a way out of all their difficulties seemed to have been found, things had lapsed back into as bad a state as ever. He wondered how Rook and his companion had happened to be on the road, and how they knew he would be coming along it.
As a matter of fact, neither of them had any idea that the autoist they had hailed was Tom till they heard his voice. Then Rook’s plans were made in a flash. The two men had been on their way toward Boonton to get a train into Boston when Tom came along. His advent had made a change in their plans.
The trees along the roadside began gradually to close in. The trunks were closer together. At last they reached a spot where it was impossible to proceed any further in the car. Tom brought it to a stop.
“All right,” said Rook, “that’s as far as the car can come. We’ll have to hoof it the rest of the way. Put out that searchlight and come on.” Tom extinguished the light, and Rook’s companion produced an electric torch. Guided by this, the party set out once more, Tom in advance, with Rook close behind and Radcliff hanging on to one of his wrists. As they proceeded it suddenly flashed across Tom that the men were taking him to one of their hiding-places—quite likely to the very “old Haskins place” referred to in the letter.
“Well, at any rate I may find a chance to get on the track of the model once more,” he thought, as they still pushed forward.
All at once through the trees the white outlines of a huge house loomed up in ghostly fashion. Tom guessed that it must be the Haskins place referred to in the letter he still had in his pocket. He wished now that he hadn’t it on his person. If the men should search him and should find it, they might have a clew to the whereabouts of young Ralph.