Nobody asked Victor Burnham how he intended to go. But Helen knew he had come from Buffalo in his own car, and, of course, he could go the same way.
“Will you take me with you, Ranfelt?” he asked, as the mine owner stepped out to the veranda.
Helen managed to catch her father’s eye, and he gave Burnham a prompt negative.
“All right, Ranfelt. I can drive my own car,” he said, with an evil grin. “It will be a little lonely for me, but we can all go together, even if we are in separate cars.”
“The blackguard!” thought Stanley Downs. “I feel as if he and I would come to grips some time—and not on the speedway only.”
CHAPTER V.
For a Sure Thing.
IT was two days later when Victor Burnham, with a raincoat covering his ordinary raiment, and a peaked cap pulled well down over his brows, stood behind a big racing car in a garage in a back street in Buffalo. With him was a man whose oily overalls and blackened hands proclaimed him a garage employee.
“Now, Dan,” whispered Burnham, as he glanced about to make sure they could not be overheard. “You understand that if I win this race you get a clear thousand dollars.”
“When do I get it?” inquired Dan coldly. “I want it as soon as you run your car off the track.”