He paid not the least attention to the Hindoos, nor to Haidee. He was thinking of Carl, and trying to guess how much money he would get for bringing back the stolen horse and runabout.
For once, he thought exultantly, he was making the detective business pay.
Whirling into the road, he headed the horse back toward town, plying the whip and hustling the best he knew how.
It was a marvel that the runabout held together. But it did. Suddenly a firearm spoke sharply from somewhere in the rear.
Carl did not look behind. He had but one thought, and that was that the Hindoos must be phenomenal runners, and that they were chasing him on foot and firing as they came.
He bent forward over the dashboard and urged the cob to a wilder pace.
Then, while he was using the whip, an angry voice roared from alongside the runabout:
"Stop lashing that horse! Stop, I tell you!"
Carl became faintly aware that there was an automobile dashing along the road side by side with the runabout.
"Carl!" shouted a familiar voice. "Stop your running! Don't you know who we are?"