It was quite late in the evening when Randy reached Brenton. He felt easier, now that he seemed sure of locating his chum, or at least running down the people who had carried him away. Once at Brenton there was no difficulty in finding the Tyson home. It was a very fine mansion with big grounds about it, but Randy was not at all awed by that. He ran his machine up to the stone porch and ascending the steps rang the door bell. A servant answered the summons. “Is Mr. Tyson at home?” Randy inquired. “He is at home, yes,” replied the servant, studying critically the dust-covered caller. “Business with him?” “I have. You just tell him I am Randy Powell, from Seaside Park, and I came about the automobile accident.” The servant left Randy standing in the vestibule until a portly, consequential-looking man appeared. He viewed Randy in a shrewd, supercilious way. “What’s your business?” he challenged crisply. “Are you Mr. Tyson?” “Never mind that. What are you after?” “But I do mind it,” retorted Randy boldly. “If you are Mr. Tyson, it was your machine that ran down a friend of mine back at Seaside Park a couple of hours ago, and I want to know what you have done with him.” Mr. Tyson looked a trifle flustered; then very much annoyed. He said: “I’ve done nothing with him. He just came along. Say, I hope you haven’t gone and stirred up a lot of notoriety and trouble for me along the line.” “Why should I—unless you deserve it.” “Ha—hum!” muttered the millionaire. “See here, come in. You look reasonable—more so than that young wildcat friend of yours unless he has his own way.” Mr. Tyson led Randy into a magnificently furnished room, nodded him to a chair and sat down facing him. “See here,” he spoke, “you just tell me how much rumpus you have raised about this unfortunate affair.” “I’ve raised no rumpus,” declared Randy. “I’ve simply run down your automobile, which the police of Seaside Park didn’t seem able or inclined to do.” “I’m glad of that,” said Mr. Tyson, apparently greatly relieved, “and there will be no trouble at all in fixing up things satisfactorily all around. You would have heard from me before midnight, for this Pep—ought to be called Pepper—just ordered that his friend at Seaside Park—I suppose it’s you?” “Yes, it’s me,” declared Randy. “Well, he wanted word sent to you.” “Is he badly hurt?” inquired Randy solicitously.