He could hear her call Del Mar, and although he could not hear Del Mar’s answers, she repeated enough for him to catch the drift.  Finally, she came out, and the stranger, instead of following her further, took the other direction hurriedly.

. . . . . . .

Del Mar himself received the news with keen excitement.  Quickly he gave instructions and prepared to leave his rooms.

A short time later his car pulled up before the La Coste and, in a long duster and cap, Del Mar jumped in, and was off.

Scarcely had his car swung up the avenue when, from an alleyway down the street from the hotel, the chug-chug of a motor-cycle sounded.  A bearded man, his face further hidden by a pair of goggles, ran out with his machine, climbed on and followed.

On out into the country Del Mar’s car sped.  At every turn the motor-cycle dropped back a bit, observed the turn, then crept up and took it, too.  So they went for some time.

. . . . . . .

On the level of the Grand Central where the trains left for the Connecticut shore where Elaine’s summer home was located, Bailey was now edging his way through the late crowd down the platform.  He paused before the baggage-car just as one of the baggage motor trucks rolled up loaded high with trunks and bags.  He stepped back as the men loaded the luggage on the car, watching carefully.

As they tossed on one trunk marked “E.  Dodge,” he turned with a subtle look and walked away.  Finally he squirmed around to the other platform.  No one was looking and he mounted the rear of the baggage-car and opened the door.  There was the baggageman sitting by the side door, his back to Bailey.  Bailey closed the door softly and squeezed behind a pile of trunks and bags.

. . . . . . .

Finally Del Mar reached a spot on the railroad where there were both a curve and a grade ahead.  He stopped his car and got out.

Down the road the bearded and goggled motorcyclist stopped just in time to avoid observation.  To make sure, he drew a pocket field-glass and leveled it ahead.

“Wait here,” ordered Del Mar.  “I’ll call when I want you.”

Back on the road the bearded cyclist could see Del Mar move down the track though he could not hear the directions.  It was not necessary, however.  He dragged his machine into the bushes, hid it, and hurried down the road on foot.

Del Mar’s chauffeur was waiting idly at the wheel when suddenly the cold nose of a revolver was stuck under his chin.

“Not a word—­and hands up—­or I’ll let the moonlight through you,” growled out a harsh voice.

Nevertheless, the chauffeur managed to lurch out of the car and the bearded stranger, whose revolver it was, found that he would have to shoot.  Del Mar was not far enough away to risk it.