had not been touched, but there
was no doubt that he had felt the wind of the great car's passing.

The fleeing car was gaining now.

It rode madly down Broadway. The great pillared intersection where
Broadway cuts through Sixth Avenue was dead ahead. The fleeing car
continued on, crashing through, while cars evaded it in every
direction, and into Broadway beyond. After it went Bentley, all other
matters forgotten as he prayed to the god of speed to guide them
through.

Two cars came out of Thirty-first Street. Their drivers saw their
danger at the same time. But they turned different ways, and as
Bentley's car flashed past them the two cars seemed welded solidly
together. They were rolling across the sidewalk toward the huge plate
glass window of a restaurant. Just as the pursuing car lost them as
they swept past, the two cars went through that plate glass window.
Bentley, in his mind's eye, saw the two dead, mutilated drivers, and
the passengers with them, he saw the wreckage of the restaurant, the
mangled diners who sat at the tables nearest the fatal window.

"More marks against Barter," he muttered to himself. "How long will
the list be before I'll be able to drag him down?"

- - -

On and on went the two cars. People packed the sidewalks, but they
kept close against the buildings. The streets were almost deserted
now, for that warning had got ahead. Three other police cars were
careening down the street, too. Bentley saw them with pleasure. Other
cars would be coming in to head off the fleeing limousine. This one
puppet of Barter's, at least, would be pocketed before he could find
time to leap from his car and escape.

"Barter's sweating blood as he saws with both hands at an imaginary
driver's wheel," thought Bentley. "When will he give up--and what will
his driver do when Barter relinquishes control?"

For the first time the grim thought came to him. He knew that the
creature there had the brain of an ape. What would an ape do if he
suddenly found himself at the wheel of a car going down Broadway at
eighty miles an hour? He would chatter, and jump up and down. The
plunging car, with accelerator full on, would be out of control.

"God Almighty, I never thought of that!" yelled Bentley. "As soon as
he sees he can't save his puppet he'll let him get out the best way he
can, himself ... and that car will be traveling, uncontrolled, at
eighty miles an hour."

As though his very statement ha