Something was pushed between Carl's lips and tied there. He still continued to splutter, but the sounds were muffled and the words indistinct.
He felt himself lifted and crumpled into the front of the roadster.
"Open the doors!" ordered the driver in the car. "Number One, crank-up!"
Carl could hear the doors thrown ajar, and this noise was followed by the popping of the motor as the cylinders took the explosion.
"Remember what I say, drivers," called the leader of the gang, "and wait here for us to return. We have plans to consider."
Then the car moved off on the low gear. Carl felt it turn through the entrance and chuggety-chug up an incline; another turn and they were in the alley, another and they were in the street. After that, for a few minutes, the vehicle flew swiftly. Presently it halted, Carl's ropes were stripped away, and he was thrown out.
Stumbling to his knees, he began frantically jerking off the cloth that covered his eyes, and the gag that interfered with his speech.
The tail-light of the roadster was just vanishing around a corner. Carl shook his fist after the car and got to his feet, saying things to himself.
His novel experience had dazed him. It was all so unreal that it seemed like a dream.
Still muttering to himself, he made his way to the sidewalk, found a policeman, inquired his way to the Clifton House, and set out hurriedly to find Motor Matt, and report.