“I would like to inquire about an automobile that passed or stopped here within the past hour,” spoke Randy, approaching this man.
“Where from? What number?” inquired the latter.
“I don’t know,” explained Randy, “but I will give you the best description I can from heresay. It was a big red car, and besides the chauffeur and passenger there was a boy about my age who had got his arm hurt——”
“Oh, I know now,” interrupted the man—“you mean Colonel Tyson’s car. They stopped to get a wet towel soaked in ice water to wrap around the boy’s wrist, I fancy, for he was holding one arm and seemed in pain.”
“Yes, yes—that is my friend,” declared Randy hastily. “Which way did the machine go?”
“To Brenton, of course, where it belongs.”
“Then you know its owner?”
“Everybody knows him—Tyson, the millionaire. Used to be a big bond man in New York City.”
“Thank you,” said Randy and was off on his travels again. “I hope Pep isn’t hurt badly,” he mused. “He doesn’t seem to be from what I hear; but why is this rich old fellow running away with him?”
It was quite late in the evening when Randy reached Brenton. He felt easier, now that he seemed sure of locating his chum, or at least running down the people who had carried him away. Once at Brenton there was no difficulty in finding the Tyson home. It was a very fine mansion with big grounds about it, but Randy was not at all awed by that. He ran his machine up to the stone porch and ascending the steps rang the door bell. A servant answered the summons.