Page:Czecho-Slovak Student Life, Volume 18.djvu/83

New York for—oh, for quite a number of things. It’s a hobby of his to lose himself in some small town after a ten-strike and palm himself off on the unsuspecting citizens as a second Rubens or Maner.

“This time, however, we traced him to this vicinity— —”. Again the speaker interrupted himself and straightening with a suddenness that was amazing for a man of his bulk asked, “Can you direct me to him? I don’t know the town”.

Jim nodded. “I can take you to the hotel where he’s staying,” he said.

“Come along”, the big man callled over his shoulder. He was already halfway to the door, seemingly as sudden in action as in speech.

They emerged into the street to find that a fine autumn rain had set and was gradually increasing in force. Jim gave the direction as he was getting in the car and before he had closed the door, they were facing the other way round.

Scarcely had they traversed two blocks, getting in sight of the road which led to Seoville Heights, the neighboring town, when Jim put his hand on his companion’s arm.

“Wait,” he said, “Yes, it’s his car down the road there. It’s the speediest roadster in town. I could tell it anywhere.”

The big man only chuckled at this and turning the car in the direction indicated, shot it forward in what seemed a long bound with a gentle pressure on the accelerator.

His confidence seemed justified for, though Durand was apparently in a hurry to get out of the rain, the distance between the two cars decreased perceptibly. Yet the big car showed no signs of effort.

They had not gone half a mile, when the rain and the coming darkness made it imperative to switch on the head-lights.

The cars were scarcely two hundred yards apart by this time and Durand must have noticed the lights, for they saw some one lean his head out of the roadster.

Now, the hum of the motor of the detective’s car was a sound that no automobile engine in Middleboro could imitate. It rose from a steady low growl when the speedometer indicated thirty miles per hour, higher and higher, till at eighty it reached a thin, metallic whine like the “ping” of a bullet. A man who had heard the sound twice would never mistaken it.

The big man seemed to know this, for Durand had scarcely leaned out when Jimmy’s companion opened the cut-out and the gray ear let out a series of explosions. But the man ahead had, apparently, heard enough, for the little roadster darted suddenly down the road like a thing obsessed.

The detective gave vent to a chagrined “Damn” and sent the machine ahead with a vicious pressure on the accelerator. The gray car shot forward like a liv-