“Seventy miles was Clay Varron’s record in a Kronite car, on that very road below, there,” he mused. “Seventy miles an hour on an ordinary road, with all the possibilities of loose stones, holes, and other cars meeting him. What could a man do in a good car on the Prentiss Speedway? The record at Sheepshead Bay is more than a hundred and two for three hundred and fifty miles.” Me sighed dubiously. “That’s some traveling, keeping it up for more than three hours.”
Stanley Downs went to bed.
CHAPTER IV.
A Way Out.
“I’M sorry nothing has been found of your money, Mr. Downs. But, to be frank, I don’t see how they could get it for you. Paper money was never meant to be soaked in water and used afterward. The twenty thousand dollars belonged to the bank, I understand?”
It was Lawrence K. Ranfelt talking, after breakfast, the next morning. He and Stanley, both early risers, sat on the veranda and gazed across at the fresh verdure of the hills and the slowly rising mist from the great hollows. They were alone. Mr. Ranfelt’s manner was very serious.
“The money had been Colonel Prentiss’,” answered Stanley. “But, of course, when it came into my hands, as a representative of Burwin & Son’s banks, we were responsible for its safely. The loss will fall on the bank.”
“I suppose Burwin & Son can stand it?”
“Naturally. But that is not the point. My uncle, Richard Burwin, does not believe in mistakes—or accidents. He holds that the first always imply negligence, and that accidents never happen when proper care is taken.”
“I don’t agree with your uncle,” snapped Ranfelt. “It was not your fault that you fell into the lake yesterday. If you hadn’t been trying to keep that harum-scarum girl of mine out of mischief, you would never have got into trouble. However, we won’t talk about that. What about your uncle?”