There were several hundred people at the speedway to see the trial, although it was not a public exhibition. The spectators included drivers of other cars, mechanicians, officers of the speedway—including the manager, Colonel Frank Prentiss—and other persons who were connected in various ways with the track and the race that was to take place on Thursday.
Stanley did not push his car too hard, but he went over the two miles in a minute and twenty seconds, which was at the rate of ninety miles an hour. This admitted the car to the cup race, the requirement being a speed of not less than eighty-five miles an hour.
When the trial was over, and as soon as he could get away from the swarm of interested people who crowded about the car after it had passed the judges’ stand and been declared qualified, Stanley left the track and made his way to the garage, where he turned the Thunderbolt over to his mechanician.
He had had a telegram from his uncle that morning which he should have answered before—only that he did not know what to say. It disturbed him so that it was only by desperately concentrating his mind on the business immediately in hand that he had been enabled to drive in the trial.
The telegram was brief and to the point. It read as follows:
Have heard that you met with accident in mountains not far from Poughkeepsie. Is money safe? Answer at once.
Richard Burwin.
“What shall I do about this, Clay?” asked Stanley of his friend, as the two pored over the telegram in Stanley’s room at the hotel. “The money is at the bottom of the lake. I suppose it is safe enough, but I haven’t got it,” he added grimly.
“I suppose you must answer the wire?” observed Varron, with, a questioning look.
“If you knew my uncle as well as I do,” returned Stanley, “you would not ask that. Of course I must answer it.”