Vee stares at me for a second, and then gives one of them ripply laughs.

“How crazy of you to think such a thing!” says she.

“Here’s the evidence in the case,” says I, pointin’ to the map with the scribblin’ on the side.  “That’s her writin’, ain’t it?  And you remember her wakin’ up and askin’ questions, don’t you?”

“Ye-e-es,” admits Vee; “but I’m sure she hasn’t—­”

“She and the Captain are missing,” says I.  “That’s what comes of my gettin’ chatty about business affairs.  I didn’t dream, though, that Auntie was such a plunger.”

“I can’t believe it,” says Vee.  “There’s been some ridiculous mistake.  But I can’t imagine where she could have gone so early.”

“Couldn’t have had time to pack a trunk, could she?” I asks.  “If not she’d be coming back some time to-day.  Shall we wait here a while, Mr. Ellins?”

“I think I prefer a meeting on neutral grounds,” says he.

So we goes downstairs and paces up and down the sidewalk, watchin’ the avenue traffic sleuthy.

“Course she wouldn’t start off without baggage,” I suggests.

“I’m not so certain,” growls Old Hickory.

Ten minutes we waited—­fifteen; and then I spots a yellow taxi rollin’ up from downtown.  Inside I gets a glimpse of a black straw lid with purple flowers on it.

“Here she comes!” I sings out to Old Hickory.  “Yep, that’s her!  And say!  The Captain’s with her.  Quick!  Dive into our cab.”

He’s a little heavy on his feet, Mr. Ellins is, and someway he manages to get himself hung up on the cab door.  Anyway, Auntie must have seen us doin’ the wild scramble, and got suspicious; for, just as they got alongside, she pounds on the front window, shouts something at the driver, and instead of stoppin’ the other taxi veers off and goes smokin’ uptown.

“Hey!” yells Mr. Ellins to our driver.  “Catch that yellow car!  Ten dollars if you catch it.”

And you know it’s just the chance of hearin’ a few kind words like them that these taxi pirates live for.  This old coffee mill that Mr. Ellins had hailed reckless could give out more groans and grinds and produce less speed than any other fare trap I was ever in.  The connectin’ rods was wabbly on the shaft, the gears complained scandalous, and the hit-and-miss average of the cylinders was about 33 per cent.

But after a few preliminary jack-rabbit jumps she begun to get headway, and the next I knew our driver was leanin’ over his wheel like he was after the Vanderbilt Cup.  He must have been throwin’ all his weight on the juice button and slippin’ his clutch judicious, for we sure was breezin’ some.  Inside of two blocks we’d eaten up half the lead and was tearin’ uptown like a battalion chief answerin’ a third alarm.  I glances at Old Hickory to see if he’s gettin’ nervous at some of the close shaves; but he’s braced himself in one corner, his teeth sunk deep into his cigar and his eyes glued on that yellow taxi ahead.