Randy knew the direction the red automobile had taken. He proceeded to a livery garage where motorcycles were on rent, and made himself known. He was well up in running the machine and was soon speeding on the trail of his missing chum, as he supposed and hoped. The west road out of Seaside Park was the best in the section. It ran to Brenton and beyond that to the large cities. There was every reason to believe that the kidnappers, if such they were, would favor a smooth, easily traversed highway over inferior dirt and stone roads that ran parallel. Randy stopped at the first little town he came to and made some inquiries, but they availed him nothing. Five miles further on, however, he got a clue. Here were crossroads and a “Roadside Rest,” a general halting place for roadmen. Several autos were in view, their occupants taking lunch in a pavilion near the hotel or walking about stretching their limbs. A man who wore a banded cap and a close fitting coat flitted around here and there in an important way, and Randy decided he must be a sort of major domo about the place. “I would like to inquire about an automobile that passed or stopped here within the past hour,” spoke Randy, approaching this man. “Where from? What number?” inquired the latter. “I don’t know,” explained Randy, “but I will give you the best description I can from heresay. It was a big red car, and besides the chauffeur and passenger there was a boy about my age who had got his arm hurt----” “Oh, I know now,” interrupted the man--“you mean Colonel Tyson’s car. They stopped to get a wet towel soaked in ice water to wrap around the boy’s wrist, I fancy, for he was holding one arm and seemed in pain.” “Yes, yes--that is my friend,” declared Randy hastily. “Which way did the machine go?” “To Brenton, of course, where it belongs.” “Then you know its owner?” “Everybody knows him--Tyson, the millionaire. Used to be a big bond man in New York City.” “Thank you,” said Randy and was off on his travels again. “I hope Pep isn’t hurt badly,” he mused. “He doesn’t seem to be from what I hear; but why is this rich old fellow running away with him?” 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.”