At the stable they were confronted with the knowledge that Norton's car was out of commission; Jones could do nothing with it. Then Norton suggested that he make an effort to commandeer the limousine of the countess; but there were men about, so the limousine was out of the question. "Horses!" whispered Jones. "There are several saddle horses, already saddled. How about these people, the owners?" "Oh, they are beyond reproach. They have doubtless been imposed upon. But let us get aboard first. There will be time to talk later. I'll have to do some explaining, taking these nags off like this. We won't have to ride out in front where the picnickers are. There's a lane back of the stable, and a slight detour brings us back into the main road." The three mounted and clattered away. To Florence it had the air of a prank. She was beginning to have such confidence in these two inventive men that she felt as if she was never going to be afraid any more. When the Countess Olga saw the three horses it was an effort not to fly into a rage. But secretly she warned her people, who presently gave chase in the limousine, while she prattled and jested and laughed with her company, who were quite unaware that a drama was being enacted right under their very noses. The countess, while she acted superbly, tore her handkerchief into shreds. There was something sinister in the way all their plans fell through at the very moment of consummation; and that night she determined to ask Braine to withdraw from this warfare, which gradually decimated their numbers without getting anywhere toward the goal. Jones shouted that the limousine was tearing down the road. Something must be done to stop it. He suggested that he drop behind, leave his horse, and take a chance at potting a tire from the shrubbery at the roadside. "Keep going. Don't stop, Norton, till you are back in town. I'll manage to take good care of myself." CHAPTER VII When all three finally met at the Hargreave home Florence suddenly took Jones by the shoulders and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Jones started back, pale and disturbed. Norton laughed. He did not feel the slightest twinge of jealousy, but he was eaten up with envy, as the old wives say. "You are wondering if I suspect the Countess Perigoff?" said Jones. "I am." This man Jones was developing into a very remarkable character. The reporter found himself side glancing at the thin, keen face of this resourceful butler. The lobe of the man's left ear came within range. Norton reached for a cigarette, but his hands shook as he lit it. There was a peculiar little scar in the center of the lobe. "Well," said Jones, "I can find no evidence that she has been concerned in any of these affairs." "You are suspicious?" "Of everybody," looking boldly into the reporter's eyes. "Of me?" smiling. "Even of myself sometimes." Conversation dropped entirely after this declaration. "You're a taciturn sort of chap."