rfect health to all
outward appearances. He was in happy ignorance of his feelings for Polly
Street. He had been in love times enough, he would have told you, to know
the symptoms; all of which was quite true, but the fact remained that this
time he did not know them.

Polly Street was so exactly the sort of girl that Marc Scott had not the
faintest idea of falling in love with, much less marrying, that he would
have dismissed the possibility with a shrug. He, who valued his freedom
above everything, to throw it away for exactly the kind of woman who would
take the greatest pleasure in trampling on it? As for his jealousy of Juan
Pachuca, which should have opened his eyes, he put it aside easily. He
didn't like the fellow--never had--and it annoyed him to see a decent girl
allowing herself to be humbugged by his good looks and oily tongue.

It was a pity, for she was a plucky young thing. She had done well to
bring back the prisoner and his car; mighty few girls would have had the
courage to try it. It was foolish, of course, a regular kid
trick--wouldn't have succeeded once in a dozen times, but nevertheless,
she had shown pluck. It was at this stage in his reflections that he had
been disturbed by Yellow's barking and had gone out to investigate. The
air and the action had changed his circulation and his thought and when he
went to bed the second time he dropped off easily.

This time he was aroused by the noise of the engine started by Pachuca on
his escape. At first he hardly realized what it was that had wakened him,
but as it dawned on his consciousness, he jumped to his feet and rushed to
the window in time to see the car tear down the road. With a muttered
exclamation, Scott seized his gun and sent a bullet wildly in the
direction of the escaping prisoner. Then he drew on his trousers, calling
to Hard at the same time.

"What's wrong? Another raid?" growled the sleepy Bostonian, who had dozed
peacefully through Pachuca's first attempt.

"No. The guy's got away," snapped Scott, angrily.

"Well, we didn't particularly need him, did we?" observed Hard, sitting up
reluctantly.

"We needed his car and needed it bad," said Scott, viciously. He tramped
out of the room, while Hard reached drowsily for his clothes.

"By George, he must have made it through the window!" he muttered as he
crossed the street, then as he came upon the body of the dog, thrown aside
behind the open door, "The dirty butcher!" he growled