Nick quickly sprang down and approached the man at work near-by. Instead of making any inquiry concerning the inmates of the house, however, Nick abruptly demanded: “Have you seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road, my man?” My man was one Jerry Conley, chauffeur, hostler, and all-round workman out of doors for Mr. Amos Badger. He was a short, stocky man, of about thirty years, with a head nearly as round as a bullet. His face was smoothly shaven, and was lighted by a pair of as shifty, crafty eyes as ever lighted a human countenance. They came round with half a leer to meet those of the detective, while the man arose from his work on the car. Wiping his hands on his overalls, he indulged in a series of jerky nods, steadily eying Nick all the while, then deliberately inquired: “What’s that you say?” “I asked if you had seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road,” replied Nick, not half-liking the fellow’s looks. “Aye, I have,” said Conley. “Which way did it go?” “Which one d’ye mean?” “Which one?” echoed Nick, sharply eying the fellow. “I mean one that may have passed within five or ten minutes.” It was then less than ten minutes since the robbery. “Oh, if that’s what you mean, mister, I haven’t seen any,” Conley now vouchsafed, with a less steadfast scrutiny of Nick’s countenance. “You haven’t, eh?” “Not to-day.” “Did you think I meant last week?” “I didn’t think at all, mister,” said Conley, stooping to pick up a bit of cotton waste from the ground. “I only heard what you asked, and that was whether I’d seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road. I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, mister, but none this morning.” “You should have known that I meant this morning.” “So I would, mister, if you’d said this morning,” Conley replied, with a leer. “I never know more’n I’m paid for knowing.” “See here, my man,” said Nick quite sternly. “If the master you serve carries the same cut of jib as yourself, it’s long odds that he——” What more Nick would have said was abruptly withheld, however, for his quick ear heard the side door of the house opened, and then the fall of a man’s feet on the veranda, followed by the inquiry: “What’s the trouble, Jerry?” “None at all, sir,” replied Conley, turning with a grin to his questioner. “Not unless this gentleman is looking for trouble, which I reckon he isn’t.” Nick had already turned to survey the first speaker, whom he rightly conjectured might be Mr. Amos Badger, despite that it was then an hour when a stock-broker should have been busy at the market. He stood near the rail of the veranda, an erect, well-built man of forty, cleanly shaven, with dark hair and eyes, the latter lighting a rather attractive yet noticeably strong and determined face.