self. "I'm after whoever brought the old man home."

Bentley was racing down the path for the street, where a man in
chauffeur's uniform was hurling himself into a limousine, while
bullets from half a dozen plain-clothes men, racing to head him off,
sang about his ears. But the stranger gained the driver's seat and
the limousine was away like a shot. The police car was rolling as
Bentley leaped upon the running board, then eased in beside the
driver.

"Don't stop for anything!" cried Bentley. "Keep that car in sight!"

The car headed downtown at breakneck speed.

CHAPTER V

_To Broadway's Horror_

Bentley would never forget that nightmarish ride downtown. It was a
dream as terrifying and ghastly as had been his experience in the
African jungles when he had been Manape. Added to the utter fear of
the ride was his fear for the safety of Ellen Estabrook. Caleb Barter,
so far, was utterly invincible. It seemed he could not be beaten or
outwitted in any way. But Bentley set his lips tightly.

Caleb Barter must have some weak spot in his insane armor, some way by
which he could be reached and destroyed--and Bentley swore to himself
that it would be he who would find that weak spot.

The limousine ahead was going at dangerous speed. The police chauffeur
beside Bentley crouched low over the wheel as he drove. His eyes never
left the speeding limousine. People on the sidewalks stared in
astonishment as the two cars flashed downtown.

The leading car sped on, the driver obviously expecting ways to open
in the last second before threatened collision. He passed cars on the
left and the right. There were times when his wheels were up on the
curb as he went through lanes between cars and sidewalks. He was
determined to go through.

Only Bentley understood that the driver ahead was an automaton, a man
whose brain did not know the meaning of fear. He knew that from his
hideout Caleb Barter was directing the flight of the escaping car. He
could fancy the old man of the apple-red cheeks, sitting in a chair in
his hideout, his hands in the air as though they gripped the wheel of
a car, sweat breaking forth on his cheeks as he guided his puppet
through the press of cars.

But by now in that uncanny way that sometimes happens the streets were
being cleared as if by magic before the flight of one whom all
observers must have thought a madman. Only Bentley knew that the
driver ahead was not a madman.

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