Curt’s trail took him, eventually, to the Parsons cottage. Seeing the car drawn up before the garage, Curt decided that he had no need to watch the car being put into the garage; evidently its driver had gone into his home for a moment first. Curt rode away. Had he waited his trail would have led further; but he did not guess that!
Bob had better fortune.
He saved his strength as he pedaled along, well ahead of his two less fortunate trailmates, and when he came to a cross street of the suburbs where a policeman was directing traffic Bob drew up beside the officer.
“Hello, Bob!” the policeman hailed. “Out sort of late, hey?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Brien. I stayed at the plant—I’m learning how they put airplanes together at the Tredway plant. I wanted to ask if you noticed a motorcycle, not long ago—maybe fifteen minutes—a friend——”
“Yes,” the officer, starting the cars down the street by a wave of his hand, did not wait for an explanation of Bob’s reason for the question, “Griff Parsons rode by.”
“That’s who I mean. Did he turn off, here, to go home?”
Bob knew that Griff’s house was several blocks over, on an up-and-down street that was “one way” for traffic. If Griff had turned here Bob’s quest, he knew, was over; if he did not, Griff would be gone much further, because if he did not turn here, and thus enter his own home street in the right direction he surely would not go on and approach it in the wrong way, against the traffic rules.
“He rode on by, just waved to me,” O’Brien said, and turned to signal a warning to a car that was trying to slip past the stoplights.
Thanking him Bob rode on. Griff must be going somewhere!