* * * * * * * *
As Cordie struggled to her feet, after being plunged from the back of the fallen horse, she saw the man in gray leap for the side of an automobile that had crashed into the curb. A thrill ran through her as she realized that this was the blue racer. The next instant, after fairly tearing the door from the hinges, the man in gray dragged a man out of the blue car, threw him to the pavement and held him rigidly there.
There came the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and then down sprang good old Tim, the police sergeant, and his fellow officer.
“He’s a bad one,” growled the one in gray. “If you’ve got handcuffs, put ’em on him.”
Tim hesitated. How was an officer to know who was in the right? This might be but a Christmas Eve fight. He had not witnessed the beginning of this affair.
A hand tugged at his sleeve. “If you please, Tim,” came a girlish voice, “It’s me, the one who stole Patrick O’Hara’s horse. If you’ll believe me you better take his word for it. He’s right.”
“Oh, he is, eh?” rumbled Tim. “Little girl, what you say goes. I’d trust you any time. On they go.”
The hawk-eyed man, for it was he that had been captured (his accomplice had vanished) made one more desperate effort to escape, but failed. The handcuffs were snapped on and he was led away by the younger officer.
“Now,” said Tim in a sterner voice, “tell me how Pat O’Hara’s horse comes to be lyin’ there in the street?”
“He—he shot him,” Cordie gulped, pointing away toward the hawk-eyed man.