The motor of the Humming Bird sang joyously. Fairly eating up the road, she took the corner with a wide swing. But when they looked down the long stretch of highway there was no red tail-light to be seen.
"Heck!" said Curlie again, "he's reached the next crossroad and turned the corner. Can't tell which way he went. It's a hard, dry gravel roadbed—won't tell a thing. Best we can do is to rattle along up there, then sit it out for another listen-in."
Disappointed but not disheartened, Curlie adjusted his instruments, then sat in breathless expectation.
He did not have long to wait, for again the voice in the loud speaker boomed out into the night.
"Huh," he grumbled a few seconds later, "he's got three miles lead on us. To the right. Quick, give her the gas."
Again they were off. For two miles and a half straight ahead they raced. The Humming Bird quivered like a leaf, instruments jingling in spite of their lashings.
"Make it all the way," said Curlie, as Joe slowed up. "He's not there. Given us the slip again."
Six times this program was gone through with. Not once in all that time did they catch sight of that tail-light.
"Some car he's got!" said Curlie when the farce was ended. "Bet he never even guessed he was being chased. But you wait; we'll get him yet."
When they were once more in the secret tower room Curlie plotted the route of the mysterious operator.