I strolled out--didn't dare to hurry, you know, in case any one might be watching from the farm--and put in some hard thinking while walking to Jackson's stand.

There were two courses open, either to send Jackson after the auto and try myself to get in touch with you and the police, or put Jackson on guard near the farm.

Whether I decided rightly or not I haven't a notion, but I let the car go, and for this reason: We know where the lady is, and so does the thug; if the police put up a hard game they can rescue her without his knowledge and spread a web for the fly to walk into later.

But they must get a move on.

This phone is nearly a mile from the farm, and Jackson is tightening nuts outside the villa I spoke of.