But Jack was younger, more agile, with better wind.  Realizing this, the fugitive wheeled around the corner into an alley.

It was a short one, leading to some sort of a stable yard.  Yet, though Jack Benson reached that yard in about record time, he gave a gasp of dismay.  For the well-dressed fugitive was already out of sight, nor did noise from any quarter show the line of his further flight.

“Confound him, I’m not going to lose him as quickly and easily as that!” raged young Benson.

“Looking for your pop?” demanded a laughing, broad-faced woman, appearing at a back door that opened into the yard.

“Yes,” declared Jack, pulsing.  “Which way—­”

“He went in there,” nodded the woman, pointing to the nearly closed door of a small barn.

It might have been that the woman was purposely deceiving him, to aid the fugitive, but to that suspicion Jack had no time to give thought.  He sprang into the barn to find it empty.  He stood there, panting, for a moment, growing sick at heart with disappointment.

Then he heard a slight rustling on a haymow overhead, that was reached only by a ladder.  Up that ladder rushed the submarine boy, springing into the hay.

As he did so, the well-dressed fugitive darted out from cover at another point in the mow, leaping straight down to the floor.  After him sprang Jack Benson, and landed full upon him.

But the fugitive, by a supreme effort fear, rose, shaking off the boy, and started to dart out into the open.

“No, you don’t—­Mr. Arthur Miller!” roared the submarine boy, making a bound after him.

So much force did Jack put into that leap that, missing, he fell to the floor on his hands and knees.  The moment thus gained for the fugitive was enough to give the latter time to dart out, slamming the door shut after him.

“This chase doesn’t stop until it turns out my way!” muttered young Benson, doggedly.  He had expected to find the door secured, but it was not.  He yanked it open.

The fugitive was crossing the yard, just reaching the alley, when the same woman who had first spoken to Jack again opened her door.  In one hand she held a mop.  This she threw with such aim or luck that it passed between the running man’s legs, tripping him.

And then Jack Benson piled upon him in earnest, first snatching up the mop and brandishing it over the fugitive’s head.

“I don’t want to hurt your cranium any,” flared up Captain Jack.  “But I’m going to do it if I have to.”

“Confound you, woman!” roared the discomfited rascal.

“Arthur Miller’s voice!” cried Jack, joyously.  “Now, I know what we had only guessed so far!  Now, see here, my fine fellow, you might as well give in, for I’m not going to quit until I land you—­”

Miller had been lying quietly enough for a few moments.  Now, however, he suddenly squirmed about, catching Jack by the ankles with both hands.  Down went the submarine boy, flopped by a trick that he had little expected.