Polly Street was so exactly the sort of girl that Marc Scott had not the faintest idea of falling in love with, much less marrying, that he would have dismissed the possibility with a shrug. He, who valued his freedom above everything, to throw it away for exactly the kind of woman who would take the greatest pleasure in trampling on it? As for his jealousy of Juan Pachuca, which should have opened his eyes, he put it aside easily. He didn't like the fellow--never had--and it annoyed him to see a decent girl allowing herself to be humbugged by his good looks and oily tongue. It was a pity, for she was a plucky young thing. She had done well to bring back the prisoner and his car; mighty few girls would have had the courage to try it. It was foolish, of course, a regular kid trick--wouldn't have succeeded once in a dozen times, but nevertheless, she had shown pluck. It was at this stage in his reflections that he had been disturbed by Yellow's barking and had gone out to investigate. The air and the action had changed his circulation and his thought and when he went to bed the second time he dropped off easily. This time he was aroused by the noise of the engine started by Pachuca on his escape. At first he hardly realized what it was that had wakened him, but as it dawned on his consciousness, he jumped to his feet and rushed to the window in time to see the car tear down the road. With a muttered exclamation, Scott seized his gun and sent a bullet wildly in the direction of the escaping prisoner. Then he drew on his trousers, calling to Hard at the same time. "What's wrong? Another raid?" growled the sleepy Bostonian, who had dozed peacefully through Pachuca's first attempt. "No. The guy's got away," snapped Scott, angrily. "Well, we didn't particularly need him, did we?" observed Hard, sitting up reluctantly. "We needed his car and needed it bad," said Scott, viciously. He tramped out of the room, while Hard reached drowsily for his clothes. "By George, he must have made it through the window!" he muttered as he crossed the street, then as he came upon the body of the dog, thrown aside behind the open door, "The dirty butcher!" he growled, furiously. "And I didn't have sense enough to search him for a knife!" Outside, he met O'Grady and Johnson, sketchily dressed and wrathful. "You heard him, too, did you?" he growled. "He got out by the window. This is some of his work," he continued, pointing to Yellow. "He did not," said O'Grady, promptly. "Did you ever hear of a guy jumping out of a second-story winder and shutting it after him?" "What?" "Sure--it's shut," grinned Johnson. "He come out of the door all right. It's wide open, and not hurt, either." "Who let him out? Where's the key? You had it, O'Grady." "I did not--you handed it to the girl, yourself. She locked him in all right; I heard her do it," replied O'Grady quickly.