Hastily, she ran to the street and sprang into the roadster. Starting the motor, she waited impatiently for the marshal and his men to appear. After a seemingly interminable wait, they came out, buckling on holsters.
They piled into the “police car” which stood at the curbing and the marshal took the wheel. After several unsuccessful attempts he started the motor. Jeff Tucker, who had followed the men from the office, would have inflicted his person upon the already overburdened car, but as he attempted to gain the running board, he was forced gently but firmly back upon the sidewalk.
“Follow me!” Nancy cried to the marshal.
Shifting gears, she started off down the road. At the corner she looked back to see that the police car was following, and caught a glimpse of Jeff Tucker who stood gazing mournfully after the departing automobiles.
At the edge of town, Nancy selected the road which she felt certain the robbers had taken. Her high-powered roadster was built for speed and several times she was forced to slow down in order that the marshal and his men might keep her in sight.
Nancy had gone perhaps eight or nine miles when unexpectedly she came to a fork in the road. Uncertain which branch-off to take, she brought the roadster to a halt. The police car pulled up alongside.
“What’s the matter now?” the marshal called out.
“I don’t know which way to go.”
The marshal and his deputies sprang from their automobile and began to examine the tracks in the road. But if a moving van had passed that way, the tire marks had been obliterated by other vehicles. There was no clue to indicate which route the robbers had selected.
“They must have taken the righthand fork,” the marshal hazarded.