"You'd know how necessary it is if you were inventing machines and trying to keep your appliances a secret. I'm not the only man in South Chicago that's perfecting an air-ship. A fellow named Jerrold has cut into the same game, and he has some one nosing around here a good share of the time, trying to get wise to something. If Jerrold has sent you here——"
"He hasn't," broke in Matt. "I don't know Jerrold from Adam."
"What's your name?"
"King, Matt King."
Brady gave a jump.
"You don't mean to say you're the young Western phenomenon the Lestrange people have brought to Chicago to run in that five-day automobile race that's turned on at the Coliseum to-morrow?"
"I'm one of their racers," answered Matt. "They have four more in the race besides me."
"Well, by thunder!" Brady stood off and regarded Matt as though he was a natural curiosity. "Why, you're no more than a kid! They had your picture in the paper, after that Kansas race, but you're a heap younger than I thought. I guess you've forgotten more about gasolene-motors than a whole lot of people ever knew."
"Oh, it isn't so bad as that. I came here to do you a good turn, Mr. Brady, and I can't see the sense of raking up my past history. Your air-ship has been stolen, hasn't it?"
"Stolen?" Brady gave another startled jump. "Not that anybody knows of. Why? What put that in your head?"