car? Yes? I thank Your
Highness; I shall not be long."

The girl for answer honked the horn in several loud blasts, and he
stopped with a murmured apology to silence it by tearing off the bulb
and throwing it to one side.

The Colonel turned and took his way through the woods, statuesquely
upright and spectral in his long Arab cloak.

Benton and McGuire had just passed the crossing where Von Ritz had left
the main road, when McGuire's quick ear caught the familiar tooting of
the other horn and brought his hand to his employer's arm. The car was
stopped, and McGuire, by match-light, examined the road with its frosty
mud unmarked by fresh automobile tracks, save those running back from
their own tires.

The runabout turned and slipped along cautiously to the rear, watchful
for byways. At the cross-road McGuire was out again. His match, held
close to the mud and gravel, revealed the tread of familiar tires.

"All right, sir," he briefly reported. "The other edition went this
track."

With a twist of the wheel Benton was again on the trail. Back in the
side lane stood a car in which a girl sat alone, solemnly indignant.

"Cara!" Benton was standing on the step. His voice was tremulous with
solicitude and perplexed anxiety. "Cara!" he repeated. "What does it
mean?"

"I don't know," she responded coolly. "Something seems to be broken."

"I don't mean that." McGuire was already investigating. "What does it
mean?"

She sighed wearily.

"When I foolishly agreed to play Juliet to your Romeo," she informed
him, and her tones were frigid, "I didn't know that your Romeo was
really only a Dromio. The other edition of you"--he flinched at the
words, and McGuire choked violently--"is back there, I believe, hunting
for matches."

"She's all right, sir," interrupted McGuire in triumph. "She'll travel
now. It's only disconnected spark plugs and a short circuiting."

"Travel, then!" snapped Benton. "Leave the runabout here. The other
gentleman may prefer not to walk home."

As he swung himself into the tonneau, the chauffeur had already seized
the wheel and the car was backing for the turn. Far back up the hillside
there was a crashing of underbrush. A spectral figure, struggling with
the unaccustomed drapery of a Bedouin robe, emerged from the woods into
the open, and halted in momentary astonishment.

"I believe I am under parole--to the other Dromio--not to run away," she
suggested wearily.

"Oh, that's all right;