post offices and that sort of thing. That cash is
tucked away in the cellar of a church and by this time tomorrow night
we'll have it, all ready for old Red and check the item from our
tablets."

"But the numbers of those notes are in every bank in the country,"
suggested Archie; "the police are only waiting for the bills to get into
circulation to pounce on the thief."

"I am more and more delighted with you, my son! That point had given me
no little worry. But something will turn up; there will be a way out of
the difficulty. Chuck your old duds into the creek and close the
windows. We'll hit the long trail!"

CHAPTER TWO

I

Out of the woods and once more on a smooth highway the stolen car sped
like a frightened ghost through the starry night. The Governor drove
with the assurance of a man who knows what he's about. Huddled in a long
ulster he had found in the cabin, Archie, whose ideas of motoring had
always been extremely conservative, yielded himself more and more to the
inevitable. He was no longer a free agent but a plaything of
circumstance. In no exaggerated sense he was a captive, a prisoner of
the man beside him, whose friendliness was flattering and alarming in a
breath!

At any moment they might be held up and subjected to scrutiny and
questioning, and Archie experienced a tingle at the prospect; but the
Governor had declared with apparent sincerity that he had never been in
jail and this in itself was reassuring, for presumably a man who so
keenly enjoyed his freedom was a skilled dodger of the law. The
Governor, who would have passed anywhere for a successful banker or
lawyer, had more of the spirit of the debonair swashbucklers of romance
than any other man Archie had known. He might be a great liar, and
Archie suspected that he was; and doubts of the man's sanity troubled
him not a little; but it sufficed for the moment that his comrade was
steering him rapidly away from Bailey Harbor, and so far had managed
the business with excellent judgment.

Occasionally the Governor lifted his voice in songs of unimpeachable
literary and musical quality that rang sonorously above the hum of the
engine.

"Who is Sylvia? What is she?
That all our swains commend her,"

he sang through to the end to the old familiar air; followed by "Drink
to Me Only with Thine Eyes."

They struck a stretch of road under repair and slowing up the Governor
remarked carelessly as he picked his way throug