"If he only left just before you 'phoned I ought to have met him," mused John. "There isn't a train for three-quarters of an hour--and you bet a Hun knew that--they're so thorough. He must have gone to the Junction, and then he would pass Mote, of course." "Think he went to have a squint at the hockey match?" suggested Joey doubtfully. John shook his head at her, more in sorrow than in anger. "Joey! Joey! Think I left my distracted relations in the middle of lunch, and brought my own special and particular car, just sent me by the Governor--you shall see all her points later on when we've settled this little affair--to hear you making cracked suggestions like that. If our gentleman is out for mischief, he won't be specially keen to locate himself in the midst of a large crowd of astute Redlanders, you bet. Stand up in the seat--hold on to my shoulder, that's sound enough, and see if you can locate him anywhere." Joey obeyed. She was breathless with excitement, and though John had jeered at her suggestion about Deeping Royal, he had certainly seemed impressed by her story, particularly by the violet handkerchief and the box packed in the fat cigar case. Of course, one would expect a big boy of seventeen, in naval uniform, to laugh at a girl of only thirteen; he wouldn't be human if he didn't. She got upon the driving seat, holding to John's shoulder with one hand and trying to clear her hair out of her eyes with the other. The wind was furious; she found it quite hard to keep her footing, though John's car was low--a typical racer, if she had known more about cars. John's father had known his son's taste to a nicety; John wasn't out for ornament. She saw the twisted chimneys of Mote Grange far away, and the corrugated iron roof of the station in the foreground. Then she looked along the road to the left. Clear in the intensely clear atmosphere that often goes with furious wind, she saw the twin towers of St. Philip and St. James standing against the grey line of the sea. But not one thought did she give to the great match that would be starting there in a very few minutes from now; for not so very far away, upon the white raised road, a figure was on foot beside a motor-bicycle, pushing it, running with it--_on foot_! She grabbed John's shoulder. "Oh, John, I'm sure it's him--the Professor--and his bicycle won't go, or something." "By Jove!" John cried. He glanced up at Joey with a grin. "I suppose I ought to scoot to Mote and get help, and drop you in Aunt Greta's charge." "John! he'd get away!" shrieked Joey. John grinned again. "He probably would. We won't do what we ought. Get down, Kid. I'm going to let her rip." Speed record certainly did not concern John just then--the long-snouted racer leapt forward, bumping wildly with the pace which John got out of her.