This time, Pierre was sure of it. With a wild shout, he sprang to the ground and dashed across the road, then headlong through the thicket, his form soon disappearing amidst the trees.
Like some huge monster guarding the highway, the red touring car, now dusky and gray in the gloom, sent its acetylene glare streaming over a silent and deserted road.
But it was not for long. George Clayton, whistling merrily, accompanied by the others, came along at a brisk pace.
“Hello!” cried George, as he espied the car. “Wonder if anything’s the matter? There’s no one in it. Looks like a good machine, too; eh, Aleck?”
“A dandy; kind of funny to leave it standing here. Maybe something’s busted, and the choofer has gone off after tools.”
“Chauffeur, you mean,” corrected George.
“Sure—that’s what I said. He wouldn’t—what’s the matter?”
“Goodness gracious! Also, did I ever know the beat!” cried George, his voice trembling with excitement. “Well, of all things!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Matter enough; this is Uncle Dan’s, or, rather, my car—my car; do you understand?—my car.”