CHAPTER IV. MOTOR MATT’S DUTY.

For Matt, in this queer taxicab tangle, one mystery was piling upon another. Joe McGlory, in a faster car than the “taxi,” had left New York after Matt and the girl had taken their departure. Joe might be with Mr. Random, but the girl had certainly made a misstatement when she said that the cowboy and the broker had hurried off in advance of the taxicab. But then, the girl had made many misstatements.

By the narrow margin of no more than thirty seconds, Matt had failed to reach the road in time to hail the touring car. Fate works with trifles, drawing her thread fine from the insignificant affairs of life.

The driver came unsteadily through the bushes and stood at Matt’s side, gazing toward the taxicab.

“What was you intendin’ to do?” he asked of Matt.

“I was thinking we could hail that automobile and, if the taxicab was too badly injured to proceed under its own power, we could have the machine towed to the nearest garage.”

“We won’t have any trouble findin’ a car to tow us--if we have to. If the machine ain’t too badly smashed, I’m goin’ to take you on to Rye.”

“Perhaps I’d better do the driving,” suggested Matt.

“Bosh! I’m all right for two or three weeks. The spells ain’t bad, but they’re mighty inconvenient.”

“I should say so!” exclaimed Matt. “That other passenger and myself might have been killed.”

“You wasn’t either of you hurt, was you?”

That was the first remark the driver had made that showed any solicitude for his passengers.

“No,” Matt answered. “Let’s get back and see if we can repair the taxi.”

When they reached the taxicab, the girl was sitting on a stone near the machine. Her long tresses had been replaced under the derby hat, and she looked sufficiently boyish to keep up the deception--so far as the driver was concerned. Matt passed her with hardly a glance, and helped the driver make his investigation.

No serious damage had been done to the taxicab. A lamp was smashed, and some of the electric terminals had been jarred from their posts, but not a tire had been punctured, and the machine seemed as capable as ever of taking the road.

If the girl was curious as to the sudden disappearance and reappearance of the driver, she kept her curiosity to herself. When the driver had backed the machine into the road and headed it eastward, Matt turned to the girl.

“Rye is the place we are bound for?” he said tentatively.

She gave him a quick, troubled glance.

“Yes,” she answered.

Probably she was wondering whether he was intending to keep on with the journey.

“Then,” proceeded Matt, “let’s get inside. We’ve lost a good deal of time.”

He held the door open and the girl got into the vehicle. He followed her, after telling the driver to make his best speed.

“The driver had some sort of a fit,” Matt explained, when they were once more under way, “and fell off the seat. You didn’t see him when he dropped, did you?”

“If I had,” she answered, somewhat tartly, “I should have spoken about it.”

“Of course,” returned Matt calmly. “So many peculiar things are happening, though, that I wasn’t sure but the disappearance of the driver might have had something to do with your plans.”

“_My_ plans?” she echoed.

“I don’t know whose plans they are, but I suppose, if some one else laid them, you are pretty well informed or you couldn’t carry them out. What are we to do when we get to Rye?”

“There will be another automobile there--a fast car--waiting to take us on along the Boston Post Road.”

“How far?”

“Somewhere between Loon Lake and Stoughton, on the Boston Pike.”

Again Matt was astounded.

“That’s pretty close to Boston, isn’t it?” he inquired.

“It’s a good deal closer to Boston than it is to New York.”

“When do you think we’ll get to--to where we’re going?”

“Some time to-night,” was the careless response.

“You don’t seem to realize,” said Matt, just the barest riffle of temper showing itself, “that I hadn’t any intention of taking such a long ride as this when I left the Flatiron Building.”

“Your friend wants you,” said the girl. “If that’s not enough to keep you on the long ride, then you can get out at Mamaroneck--we’ve already passed New Rochelle--and take the train back to New York.”

The girl’s indifferent manner puzzled him. She must have seen the touring car pass the taxicab, and she must have known that Joe McGlory was in the car. What this had to do with her present attitude, if anything, Matt could not guess. For all that, he felt positive she did not think he had seen the touring car dash along the road with McGlory.

“You told me McGlory had left New York ahead of us,” said he.

“That’s what I was told.”

“As a matter of fact, he didn’t leave until after we did, for he passed us while I was looking for the missing driver.”

She shot a quick look at him.

“You saw that, did you?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you stop the car and find out what Mr. McGlory wanted?”

“The car was going too fast. Besides, I didn’t know my friend was in the car until it was too far away.”

She laughed softly.

“Then you _do_ have a little confidence in me, after all?”

“Not a bit,” answered Matt, with a little laugh. “For reasons of your own, I believe you’re going to take me to the place where some one else is taking McGlory. I don’t know why, but I suppose I’ll find out if I wait long enough. Anyway, if Joe McGlory is in any sort of trouble, my place is at his side. And if you try to get away from me before I find McGlory,” he threatened, “I shall turn you over to the police in one of these small towns we’re passing through.”

“You couldn’t do that without a legal excuse.”

“Haven’t I a legal excuse? You got me away from New York by telling me something that wasn’t true.”

“You don’t know, yet, that what I told you isn’t true. I don’t think you could have me arrested for something that hasn’t happened.”

Some desperate purpose was urging the girl on. What it was, and why it should be desperate, were beyond Matt’s comprehension.

“You’re a young man with a mission,” said the girl, turning a pair of frosty blue eyes upon the young fellow beside her, “and the mission is to get to where we’re going, and find Mr. McGlory. You’ll be a whole lot wiser after that.”

Matt, in his own mind, did not doubt this statement. But that reflection in no wise helped him just then.

Presently the girl began peering through the window in the top of the door, watching the roadside as they scurried along.

“What are you looking for, Miss Granger?” asked Matt, after the girl had been peering steadily through the glass for several minutes.

“For the other car,” she answered, without looking around.

“You said that was to be waiting for us at Rye.”

“It may have come this way to meet us, and----Ah, stop!” she cried, lifting her voice. “We’ll get out here, driver.”

The driver was a surprised man as he brought the taxicab to a halt. It was a lonely piece of road where they had come to a stop, shadowed deeply, as it was, by a thick growth of trees on either side.

“It’s a mile, yet, before we get to the town,” demurred the driver.

“We’ll stop here,” said the girl decisively.

“I can’t see the other car,” spoke up Matt, looking in vain for the automobile that was to take them on.

Although he did not see another car, yet his eye was caught and held by something white fluttering from a bush. While the girl was settling with the driver, Matt made his way to the roadside and examined the fluttering object. It was a white cloth, and had evidently been tied to the bush as a signal.

“Wait a minute!” shouted Matt, as the driver was climbing back into his seat.

Both the driver and the girl whirled around and stared in his direction.

“I may want to go back to New York in the taxicab,” continued Matt. “I’d like to talk with you a minute, Mr. Granger,” he added, putting a little emphasis on the “mister.”

The girl advanced slowly toward him.

“Go back, if you’re afraid to go on and do what your friend wants you to do,” said she.

“I’m not at all certain,” said Matt, “that I’m doing what my friend wants me to do. The only reason I’m keeping on with you is because I saw McGlory pass me in that red touring car. I’d like to ask you, Miss Granger, if you stopped because you saw this signal,” and Matt turned and pointed to the white cloth.

“That’s the reason I stopped, Motor Matt,” the girl replied promptly.

“The plans you are following seem to have been laid with a good deal of care, and to point to something that may prove pretty serious. I think, Miss Granger, that you and I will go on to Rye, and stop there.”

“I’m not going to stop at Rye,” answered the girl, with spirit.

“I think you will,” answered Matt coolly. “On second thought, I believe it’s my duty to turn you over to the authorities until I can find out something more about my chum. You can explain to the judge why you’re disguised as you are.”

“You don’t mean that!” gasped the girl, starting back.

“I do,” declared Matt. “As I said, I believe it’s my duty, and----”

At that precise juncture, something descended over Matt’s head, thrown from behind. It might have been a shawl, or an automobile coat, or a piece of cloth--there was no time to take particular note of it. The attack came so suddenly, and so unexpectedly, that he was not able to defend himself.

With his face smothered in the thick folds, he was drawn roughly backward. A foot tripped him, and he measured his length on the ground. The next moment he was seized by strong hands and dragged through the bushes and into the woods. He struggled blindly and fiercely against his unseen captors, but they were too many of them. He was powerless to free himself, and the smothering cloth that covered his head and shoulders made it impossible for him to call for help.