"I know this fellow," said Sawyer, breathing hard from his effort in helping to release the unconscious man under the roadster.
"Who is he?" demanded the motorcycle man, incredulous.
"His name is Parkins, unless I am greatly mistaken," replied Sawyer, still puzzled, but practically sure.
"You're right," agreed the man who had been trailing the victim for nearly an hour. "He is a bad actor, and it was my intention to arrest him on the New York side of Williamsburg bridge. I'd hate to have him croak before my boss sees him," he concluded, and then fell to his knees and began the work of bringing Parkins back to life.
"What is he wanted for?" asked Sawyer, after several moments of hesitation.
"I'll have to refer you to my boss as to that. I was told to get him, and it's up to me to find a way to deliver him. You can bet that he is going to have a long dry spell after the old man gets through with him," sneered the operative as he looked upon the limp figure now stretched out upon the grassy roadside.
"Whom do you mean by 'old man'?" enquired Sawyer.
"My boss—and what he doesn't know about people! Well, what's the use to speculate? I had a hard time keeping Parkins in sight. Forty to sixty miles was his gait. Pretty fast for a narrow concrete roadbed."
Parkins now began to breathe heavily, and moan. Anxious that Villard should be apprised concerning him, Sawyer walked hastily over to where he sat, still holding the girl's wrist and counting the pulsations.
"The man we took from under the big car is William Parkins," said he, laconically. "He will live—probably."