“The constable’s jumping around the road,” he replied, “and the long one’s leaning against a tree.  No, he’s climbing the tree.  I can’t make out what he’s doing.”

“I know!” cried Miss Forbes; her voice vibrated with excitement.  Defiance of the law had thrilled her with unsuspected satisfaction; her eyes were dancing.  “There was a telephone fastened to the tree, a hand telephone.  They are sending word to some one.  They’re trying to head us off.”

Winthrop brought the car to a quick halt.

“We’re in a police trap!” he said.  Fred leaned forward and whispered to his employer.  His voice also vibrated with the joy of the chase.

“This’ll be our third arrest,” he said.  “That means——­”

“I know what it means,” snapped Winthrop.  “Tell me how we can get out of here.”

“We can’t get out of here, sir, unless we go back.  Going south, the bridge is the only way out.”

“The bridge!” Winthrop struck the wheel savagely with his knuckles.  “I forgot their confounded bridge!” He turned to Miss Forbes.  “Fairport is a sort of island,” he explained.

“But after we’re across the bridge,” urged the chauffeur, “we needn’t keep to the post road no more.  We can turn into Stone Ridge, and strike south to White Plains.  Then——­”

“We haven’t crossed the bridge yet,” growled Winthrop.  His voice had none of the joy of the others; he was greatly perturbed.  “Look back,” he commanded, “and see if there is any sign of those boys.”

He was now quite willing to share responsibility.  But there was no sign of the Yale men, and, unattended, the Scarlet Car crept warily forward.  Ahead of it, across the little reed-grown inlet, stretched their road of escape, a long wooden bridge, lying white in the moonlight.

“I don’t see a soul,” whispered Miss Forbes.

“Anybody at that draw?” asked Winthrop.  Unconsciously his voice also had sunk to a whisper.

“No,” returned Fred.  “I think the man that tends the draw goes home at night; there is no light there.”

“Well then,” said Winthrop, with an anxious sigh, “we’ve got to make a dash for it.”

The car shot forward, and, as it leaped lightly upon the bridge, there was a rapid rumble of creaking boards.

Between it and the highway to New York lay only two hundred yards of track, straight and empty.

In his excitement the chauffeur rose from the rear seat.

“They’ll never catch us now,” he muttered.  “They’ll never catch us!”

But even as he spoke there grated harshly the creak of rusty chains on a cogged wheel, the rattle of a brake.  The black figure of a man with waving arms ran out upon the draw, and the draw gaped slowly open.

When the car halted there was between it and the broken edge of the bridge twenty feet of running water.