"Well, Dick," he finally answered, "something may turn up."
"But we can't wait for it. Hagenmyer will be jerking the old shed down over our heads if we don't slant away sometime between this and morning."
"I'm hoping that telegram from the Lestrange people may result in something. That letter they have for me may be from Helen Brady."
Matt took the message from his pocket and read it over again. It was from the people for whom he had been driving a racing automobile, and had been received about eleven o'clock that morning. It merely stated that they had received a letter for Matt, that it was marked "important," and that they would hold it until Matt told them what to do with it. The young motorist had immediately sent his Dutch pard, Carl Pretzel, to Chicago after the letter.
"Perhaps you're right, matey," said Ferral. "Anyhow, we'll know as soon as Carl gets back. He ought to be here by eight bells of the afternoon watch. Hello!" and here Ferral's eyes wandered to the road, "who's that steering this way? He's coming full and by, and seems to be in a hurry."
Matt stared in the direction indicated by his chum. Carl had not had time to get to Chicago and back, so he knew it could not be him.
As the hurrying figure drew closer, and became more distinct, it resolved itself into the form of a man in blue and brass buttons.
"Harris!" exclaimed Matt.
"That's right!" agreed Ferral excitedly; "Harris, or I'm a Fiji! He's got something mighty important stowed away in his locker, or he wouldn't be bearing down on us at that gait."
Harris was a member of the South Chicago police force, and was a good friend of Motor Matt.