“Huh,” grunted Shirley.  “While not thrilling in originality, it is a lasting truth which nobody can deny.  I’ll save this and frame it on the walls of my rooms.”

As he drove around the corner and up the Avenue, there was suddenly a terrific explosion, which threw him completely out of the machine!  The car, without a driver, its engines whirring madly, dashed into a helpless corner fruit stand, scattering oranges, bananas, apples and desolation in its wake, as it vainly endeavored to climb to the second story with super-mechanical intelligence!  Shirley, stunned and bruised, fell to the pavement where he lay until an excited patrolman rushed to his rescue.

A little “first aid” work brought Shirley back to consciousness, and he stiffly rose to his feet, with a head throbbing too much for any real thinking.

“What’s the matter with your auto?” cried the policeman.  “Can’t you run it?  Let’s see the number.”  The officer took out his notebook, to jot down the details according to police rules.  Then he turned on Shirley in amazement.  “Be gorry, it’s car 99835 N.Y.  I just wrote the number down when I came on post with my squad!  This car is stolen.  You come with me!”

Shirley had been adjusting the mechanism, and the wheels had ceased their whirring.  He tried to expostulate in a dazed way, realizing that for once the department was working with a vengeful promptness.  He was hoist by his own petard!

“I’m the owner of the car,” he began, rubbing his aching forehead.

“What’s yer name?”

“Montague Shirley!” The policeman laughed, as he caught the criminologist by the shoulder, and blew his whistle for another man from post duty.

“You lie.  This car is owned by James Merrivale.  You can’t put over raw stuff like that on me.  I’m no rookie—­Here, Joe,” (as the other policeman ran up through the growing, jeering crowd,) “watch this machine.  This guy’s one of them auto Raffles, and I done a good job when I lands him.  I’m going to the station-house now.”

The other policeman was examining the car, when he called to his fellow officer:  “Here, Sim, did you see this car was blown up inside the seat?”

Shirley, his acuteness returned by this time, ran to the car eluding his captor’s hold.  He had not observed before the jagged shattered hole torn in the side of the leather side.  It had all happened so swiftly, that his professional instincts were slow in reasserting themselves after the “buck” of the car.

“You’re right,” he exclaimed.  “There’s an alarm clock and a dry battery—­the same man made this who built the gas-generator—­”

“Whadd’ye mean—­ain’t you the feller after all?” asked the first patrolman, beginning to get dubious about his arrest.

“No, I am no thief.  But just take me to the station-house quick, and turn in your report.  Let this other man guard that car.  Hurry up!”