The course of his flight carried him toward the rear of the Country Club grounds. He heard the colonel’s shout to the young men just in from the golf links, and he knew there would be a pursuit. Of course Matt could explain the situation and perhaps escape legal complications, but if caught he would be compelled to give up the report. He darted across a tennis court, leaped the net, dodged behind a clump of lilac bushes, and ran toward the edge of a grove that bordered the Country Club grounds on that side. Between the lilacs and the grove was a rustic pavilion. A flower bed was near the pavilion, and an old negro was kneeling beside the bed, his back toward Matt, and industriously pulling weeds. Matt had not much time to give to the negro, but hoped that he was giving his whole attention to his work. As he came around the pavilion Matt heard sounds which indicated that more pursuers were after him--these coming from the direction of the garage and the stables. To reach the timber without being seen seemed hopeless, and Matt looked hurriedly around for some place in which he could secrete himself. The floor of the pavilion was elevated some two feet or more above the surface of the ground. The opening between the floor and the ground was filled in with panels of close latticework. One of the panels was broken, and Matt dropped to his knees and crawled through it. This was not as secure a hiding place as he would have selected, if he could have had his choice, but his emergency was such that he had no time to look farther. Lying flat on the ground, so that his form would not be visible to his pursuers, Matt watched and waited. The two young men with the golf sticks broke into view around the lilac bushes. They were closely followed by three others, employees of the club, evidently, for they wore overclothes. Matt recognized one of them as having been in the garage when he and McGlory left the runabout there. The old negro had lifted himself to his feet and was facing the five pursuers. Freedom or capture for Matt depended upon what the old negro knew. Scarcely breathing, the king of the motor boys listened for what was to come. “Say, uncle,” panted one of the young men from the links, “did you see a fellow running this way?” “Ah did, suh,” replied the negro. “Ah was as close tuh him as whut me an’ yo’ is, boss.” Levitt at that instant rushed around the bushes. He was in time to hear the negro’s answer to the question. “Which way did he go?” Levitt demanded. “He’s a thief, and we’ve got to capture him and recover some stolen property. Which way did he run? Quick!” The old darky turned and deliberately pointed away from the pavilion and to a point in the encompassing timber which led toward the road, well to the north of the clubhouse. “Dat’s de way he went, boss,” said he, “an’, by golly, he went jess a-hummin’.” “This way, men!” shouted Levitt, leaping off in the direction indicated by the negro.