By the time he came back to the house, John Bennett had made a thorough search of the garden and the house, but the girl had disappeared. “Go down to the town and telephone to Gordon,” he said, and his voice was strangely calm. In a quarter of an hour Ray Bennett jumped off his old bicycle at the door of Maytree Cottage, to tell his grave news. “The ’phone line has been cut,” he said tersely. “I’ve ordered a car to be sent up from the garage. We will try to follow the tracks.” The machine had arrived when the blazing head-lamps of Dick’s car came into view. Gordon knew the worst before he had sprung to the ground. There was a brief, unemotional consultation. Dick went rapidly through the kitchen and followed the tracks until they came back to the road, to find Elk going slowly along the opposite side, examining the ground with an electric lamp. “There’s a small wheel track over here,” he said. “Too heavy for a bicycle, too light for a car; looks to me like a motor-cycle.” “It was a car,” said Dick briefly, “and a very big one.” He sent Ray and his father to the house to change; insisted on this being done before they moved a step. They came out, wrapped in mackintoshes, and leapt into the car as it was moving. For five miles the tracks were visible, and then they came to a village. A policeman had seen a car come through “a little time ago”—and a motor-cyclist. “Where was the cyclist?” asked Elk. “He was behind, about a hundred yards,” said the policeman. “I tried to pull him up because his lamp was out, but he took no notice.” They went on for another mile, and then struck the hard surface of a newly tarred road, and here all trace of the tracks was lost. Going on for a mile farther, they reached a point where the road broke into three. Two of these were macadamized and showed no wheel tracks; nor did the third, although it had a soft surface, offer any encouragement to follow. “It is one of these two,” said Dick. “We had better try the right-hand road first.” The macadam lasted until they reached another village. The road was undergoing repair in the village itself, but the night watchman shook his head when Dick asked him. “No, sir, no car has passed here for two hours.” “We must drive back,” said Dick, despair in his heart, and the car spun round and flew at top speed to the juncture of the roads. Down this they went, and they had not gone far before Dick half leapt at the sight of the red tail-lamp of the machine ahead. His hopes, however, were fated to be dashed. A car had broken down on the side of the road, but the disgruntled driver was able to give them valuable information. A car had passed him three-quarters of an hour before; he described it minutely, had even been able to distinguish its make. The cyclist was driving a Red Indian. Again the cyclist! “How far was he behind the car?” “A good hundred yards, I should say,” was the reply.