He hired a car and a driver who knew the city. It was a small roadster, and Matt had the driver take him beyond the city limits and out for five miles on the Elgin road.
They passed through a small oak opening, which looked as though it might be the place where Ben Ali was to meet his crony, Dhondaram.
"This will be far enough," said Matt. "Now, turn around and take us back to town."
The king of the motor boys gave careful attention to all the landmarks, going both ways. Returning, dusk had begun to fall, and his survey could not be as comprehensive as the one made on the outward trip. However, he was abundantly satisfied with the information he had acquired.
When they reached the garage, Matt bargained with the proprietor for a powerful touring car, with the same driver who had already been with him, to be at the show grounds at Reid's Lake at eight o'clock the following morning.
After that, he dropped in at a restaurant and had a good meal, then boarded a car for the lake, and rode back to the grounds with a crowd of people who were going to the evening performance of the show.
He had a good deal of amusement listening to the disappointed expressions of the people regarding the failure of Burton to have any aëroplane flights. Mixed up in the talk were a number of complimentary references to Motor Matt and his chums. These, so far as they applied to himself, the king of the motor boys tried not to hear. But, nevertheless, they caused a glow of satisfaction to mount to his face. It was certainly pleasant to know how his efforts in the line of duty had struck a popular chord.
That wild half-hour in the air, over Jackson, when Matt found his batteries short-circuited by a coiling cobra, had been exploited through the press. These, while arousing the popular admiration, only made the general disappointment more keen because of the failure of the Saturday flights at Reid's Lake.
When Matt got off the car at the lake, he made his way to the brilliantly lighted show grounds, and repaired immediately to the calliope tent.
Burton was there, smoking a cigar and nervously walking back and forth in front of the canvas-covered calliope.