Patsy Garvan did not return to get the motor cycle. He knew it would be of no advantage in trailing a slow-moving wagon over a rough road. He stole down to the edge of the woods, gave Mullen a lead of something like fifty yards, and then he proceeded to follow him. "The rear flap being down, the rascals cannot discover me unless they lean out and look back," he said to himself. "I’ll fool them in that case, even, by hugging the side of the road. If they see me, or give me the slip, by Jove, they shall have a medal." There was one contingency, however, on which Patsy did not figure, and which was too remote to have appealed to the most farsighted of detectives. The taxicab was returning, was speeding toward the city. It passed the crossroad several minutes after the wagon and its stealthy pursuer had departed. It sped on around the bend in the road--and the chauffeur then brought it to a quick stop. The man within had undergone a decided change. His gray hair, his pointed beard, his gold-bowed spectacles, all had disappeared. Instead of the refined, venerable countenance that had deceived Patsy Garvan, even, there now appeared the malignant, hard-featured white face of Gaston Goulard. "What is it, Fallon?" he cried, starting up from his seat. "Why have you stopped here?" The chauffeur pointed to one side of the road. "That caught my eye," he replied, with an expressive cant of his head. "It doesn’t look good to me." "What do you mean?" "That deep rut." "What do you make of it?" Goulard leaped down to the road, Fallon following. "A motor cycle has been here," said the chauffeur. "It was here only a few minutes ago, too, or this soggy earth would not have retained the tracks so plainly. Here are the fellow’s footprints, too, left when he dragged the wheel out of the road." Goulard’s hard face took on a terrible frown. He uttered an oath, crouching to examine the imprints; then added harshly: "Can we have been seen? Can we have been seen, Fallon?" "Followed, perhaps," suggested Fallon tersely. "Followed--impossible!" Goulard snarled between his teeth. "Who could have followed us? Who could have had any reason for doing so?" "Nick Carter himself, possibly, or----” "Carter be hanged," snapped Goulard, interrupting. "Carter cannot possibly have learned of this job. Only Mullen and the gang knew I had it framed up. Carter cannot have got wise since we turned the trick--that’s out of the question." "Unless Sadie Badger----” "Sadie knew nothing about it until I went to warn her against the infernal dick," Goulard again cut in fiercely. "Blast him, is he out again to queer my game? Whether he is, or not, I’ll have him in my clutches as soon as he attempts it. I’ve got that fixed with Sadie, and well fixed, too. He’ll get his, all right, if he tries to pull off the stunt I think he has in view. I’m wise to it. I’m on to Carter, now, and his infernal tricks. He----”