"Oh, yes; a man expert at such work could do it in considerably less time."
"Such a defective axle might run along smoothly, quite a while at low speed?" Benson persisted.
"Yes."
"But at high speed—?"
"Look at this axle!" continued the garage man, excitedly. "You know something about steel, don't you, young man?"
"Enough to run machinery."
"You see what a flawed piece of steel this is—unsuited to any strain? I don't believe this axle could stand the strain of high speed in a big auto for the distance of a mile."
"That's about all it stood with us," muttered Jack Benson, his face white, his jaws firmly set.
"There's been some nasty work here," continued the garage man. "It wasn't done by my chauffeur, either. He's probably the worst hurt of any in your party, which assures his innocence of a hand in the despicable work."
"Oh, I don't suspect your man—not for an instant," Jack assured the garage owner. "The truth is, I think I can guess just where to place the blame."