Neither woman had approached the window to look out, and Vic Clayton had now buttoned her cloak and appeared anxious to depart. Chick knew that Patsy must have accomplished his design by this time, however, and he did not care how soon the interview terminated. “Well, Mr. Henderson, I cannot say where Mr. Carter has gone,” Vic carelessly rejoined. “We dropped him at the corner of Arlington Street, however, only a short time ago.” “From your automobile?” “Yes, sir.” “Possibly, then, I shall now find him at the hotel.” “I think it quite probable, sir, for he walked toward Washington Street after he left us,” smiled Vic, edging toward the door which Claudia Badger already had opened. “I will return there and see,” said Chick, bowing himself from the room. “Thank you very much for your information.” “Don’t mention it, sir,” replied Vic, with a little laugh, as she and her companion also stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind them. Chick politely stepped aside, and let them precede him down the stairs. Without so much as a glance at him again, both women fell into a conventional talk as they descended toward the street. Chick reached the sidewalk close upon their heels, however. The touring-car still stood at the curb—but there was no sign of Patsy in any direction. The policeman was lingering near-by, with an air of indifference and a vacant stare across the opposite Common. From some little distance away a few curious observers were gazing toward the car, wondering at what they had seen, but the officer had made sure that they were too remote to attract attention. Neither woman noticed them as she crossed the sidewalk and quickly entered the car. In another moment it was under way, with Claudia Badger at the wheel, and presently was speeding up Boylston Street. Chick now turned to the policeman, who received him with a significant grin. “What do you say, officer?” demanded Chick. “He’s in it, all right, sir,” was the reply. “In the hamper?” “That’s what.” “Was it empty?” “Not a thing in it, sir.” “Close quarters for him, weren’t they?” “Rather,” laughed the officer. “But he fixed the clasps so he can get out whenever he likes, and he’ll not fare so badly. What’s the job, Mr. Carter?” “If all works well, officer, you may learn by reading to-morrow morning’s newspapers,” Chick pointedly rejoined, as he turned to go. “I cannot wait to inform you, for I now have work of my own elsewhere.” He was thinking of Badger’s place, and of what might befall the dauntless young detective then speeding out there in the hazardous manner described. Ten minutes later, however, with a revolver in each hip pocket, Chick also was on his way to Brookline. CHAPTER XVI. A TERRIBLE PREDICAMENT. Patsy held his breath. It was a novel and, at times, a thrilling sensation, that of riding at thirty miles an hour enclosed in a wicker hamper on the rear of an automobile.