It was an ordinary, two-thousand-dollar, single-cylinder, American-made car, and looked as though it might be able to work up considerable speed. It was painted red, and had the squat, sprawled-out appearance of the ill-omened thing after which it was named. Nick Carter could drive any kind of a car, and so could Chick. The detectives had acquired the knowledge as they acquired everything else which even remotely promised to be of aid to them in their work. Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed. “Now, then,” said Martin, “let her go!” Nick started off in fine style, guiding the broad-tired wheels on a hair line. “You’ll do,” said Martin, approvingly. “I think you can run the Spider better than Emil ever dared to. Keep along this road, right on out into the suburbs. I’ll tell you when I want to stop.” They reeled off about a mile before Nick got the order to halt. The stop was made in front of a two-story brick house. “I’ll get out here, and you can wait for me,” said Martin. “Better turn on the electricity in the lamps, for it will be pretty dark when we start back.” Martin got out and went up the steps and into the house, and Nick turned the electricity into the side lamps and settled himself back in the seat as comfortably as he could. Presently he became aware that a roughly dressed man, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets, was sizing up the machine through the semigloom. “What’s one ov them there dinguses wuth?” the man inquired. “More than you’ll ever salt away,” answered Nick. “I want tew knaow! Naow, mister, ef yeou’ll jist tell me----” Nick started up suddenly in his seat, and swept a quick glance around. “You’re taking a big risk, chief!” he muttered. “Got an answer to that Chicago telegram, and had to see you,” the chief replied. “Do you often tog up like that?” “Not often; that’s something I leave to my under-strappers. But in this instance, as only Jerome and I know your make-up, and Jerome can’t be spared, I decided to help you out.” “How did you know I was here?” “Saw you come out of the hotel, and followed along on a bike that stood at the curb.” “Bully for you, chief!” exclaimed Nick. “That answer from Chicago got around in short order.” “It had the right of way, and they must have known all about this Leonard Martin at headquarters.” “What of him?” “The Chicago chief says that he’s one of the shining lights of the bar, in that place, and that some time ago he started to tour New England in his auto, the Red Spider, with three friends. The party, at this time, is believed to be somewhere in Vermont.” “That all?” “Isn’t it enough?” “I think so,” returned Nick, musingly. He was “up a stump,” so to speak. Something was wrong, for this Chicago information did not jibe with his own deductions--and he was ready to bank on his deductions. “What in Sam Hill are you running that machine for?” queried the curious chief.