“Pard,” said Matt quietly, “it’s a game of out-and-out robbery.” “That’s the syndicate’s lookout, not mine. If they want to drop half a million into that hole in the ground, what is it to me?” “I don’t think you mean that, Joe,” said Matt, getting up. “We’ll go on to the Malvern Country Club and find out what Griggs has to say to you. We’ve got plenty of time to figure the matter over before the Syndicate meets to-night.” Matt’s face was set and determined, and there was a smouldering light in his gray eyes, which proved that he had nerved himself for some duty which might be disagreeable. McGlory was wrapped in thought--so concerned in his own affairs that he forgot Matt, forgot the treacherous nature of the runabout, forgot everything but the “Pauper’s Dream” and his chances for winning or losing a fortune. CHAPTER V. THE UNEXPECTED. The unexpected happened at least twice to the motor boys between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock that Thursday morning. First, they naturally expected to have trouble with the runabout, but it carried out its work handsomely and deposited them in the Malvern Country Club garage at precisely five minutes of eleven. There was not much talk between the boys during the ride. McGlory was concerned with his “Pauper’s Dream” reflections--and Matt had reflections of his own. Besides his thoughts, which were none too agreeable, Matt had to recall Billy’s instructions for finding the way, and also to be on the alert for any sudden tantrum on the part of the runabout. But the tantrum did not develop, and the boys left the garage and made their way across the broad lawn of the clubhouse to a porch which extended along the front of the building. “I’d like to see Mr. Joshua Griggs,” said McGlory to a stout person wearing side-whiskers and knee breeches. The servant looked the boys over. “Wot nyme?” he asked. “Matt King and Joe McGlory--two nymes.” “’E’s hexpecting you. This w’y, please.” The boys were ushered through a great apartment with a beamed ceiling and a fireplace that covered half of one end of the room, up a flight of broad stairs, and along a wide hall. Here the servant paused by a door and knocked. A mumble of voices, coming from the other side of the door, ceased abruptly. “What’s wanted?” demanded some one. “Mr. McGlory hand friend, sir.” “Send ’em in.” The servant pushed open the door, drew to one side, and bowed the boys out of the hall. Then the unexpected happened for the second time. There were two men in the room, and the atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke and a reek of liquor. A box of cigars was on a table; also a decanter and two glasses, a bowl of cracked ice, and a bottle of “fizz” water. A man was seated in a comfortable chair, rocking and smoking. This man was Hannibal J. Levitt, owner of the unmanageable runabout.