Mr. Parker did not answer, but a wintry smile flittered across his face. "It was not?" said John. "Well, I'm glad of that. I don't wish Mr. Scobell any harm." Mr. Parker looked at him doubtfully. "Say, why are you in this game at all?" he said. "What made you butt in?" "One must do something," said John. "It's interesting work." "If you'll quit--" John shook his head. "I own it's a tempting proposition, things being as they are, but I won't give up yet. You never know what may happen." "Well, you can make a mighty near guess this trip." "You can't do a thing yet, that's sure," said John confidently. "If you shot me now, the cab would be stopped, and you would be lynched by the populace. I seem to see them tearing you limb from limb. 'She loves me!' Off comes an arm. 'She loves me not!' A leg joins the little heap on the ground. That is what would happen, Mr. Parker." The other shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into silence once more. "What are you going to do with me, Mr. Parker?" asked John. Mr. Parker did not reply. * * * * * The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. An occasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment, John felt, the climax of the drama might be reached, and he got ready. His muscles stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of its being effective, but at least it would be good to put up some kind of a fight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movement might upset the other's aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere. That was certain. But quickness might save him to some extent. He braced his leg against the back of the cab. And, as he did so, its smooth speed changed to a series of jarring jumps, each more emphatic than the last. It slowed down, then came to a halt. There was a thud, as the chauffeur jumped down. John heard him fumbling in the tool box. Presently the body of the machine was raised slightly as he got to work with the jack. John's muscles relaxed. He leaned back. Surely something could be made of this new development. But the hand that held the revolver never wavered. He paused, irresolute. And at the moment somebody spoke in the road outside. "Had a breakdown?" enquired the voice. John recognized it. It was the voice of Kid Brady. * * * * * The Kid, as he had stated that he intended to do, had begun his training for his match with Eddie Wood at White Plains. It was his practise to open a course of training with a little gentle road-work, and it was while jogging along the highway a couple of miles from his training camp, in company with the two thick-necked gentlemen who acted as his sparring partners, that he had come upon the broken-down taxicab.