"Ah!" she breathed, "I am safe!"

But even as she said this she saw Laurie collapse like an empty sack, and the next instant grasped from behind by two clutching hands, she was again whirled toward the kidnapper's car.

Half blinded by terror, she caught a vision of police blue that hovered above her.

"Pat! Patrick O'Hara!" she called.

There came the angry crack of an automatic. Then the figure in blue came hurtling off the horse to fall at her feet. At the same instant there was a second catapult-like blow of the man in gray. Again she was s.n.a.t.c.hed free.

"Jiggers! Beat it! Beat it!" she heard in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. The next instant the door to the blue car slammed shut and its wheels began to move.

For three seconds she wavered there, watching the car move away. Then catching a glimpse of Patrick O'Hara lying at her feet, wounded, perhaps dead, a great courage came to her.

"They must not escape!" she screamed. "They shall not!"

The next instant she leaped into the saddle of the police horse, d.i.c.k.

Just as the n.o.ble animal dashed away she felt the solid impact of someone mounting behind her.

One glance she cast behind her. "Oh!" she breathed. It was the man in gray. To d.i.c.k she whispered: "All right, d.i.c.k, old dear, Go! Go fast! For the love of Patrick O'Hara and Laurie Seymour; for the love of all that's good and true, go; go as you never went before!"

There was no need to talk to d.i.c.k. He was away like the wind.

It was a moment of high suspense and swift action; one of those moments when success or failure hinges on the right move at the right second.

CHAPTER XXII THE FINISH

d.i.c.k was no ordinary horse. He was an unusual horse who had very unusual masters. The young policeman had spoken the truth when he said that Pat O'Hara's horse was the smartest on the force. As d.i.c.k felt his young mistress in the saddle and the man in gray behind her, he realized that this was not to be a race, but a fight. He seemed to sense that his task was to keep in sight of that racing blue automobile, and not for one instant to lose sight of it.

Follow it he did, and that at the peril of his own life and the lives of those who rode. Now dashing past a low, closed car, now crowding between two black sedans, now all but run down by a great yellow car, he forged straight ahead.

He not only followed; he actually gained. Leaning far forward in the saddle, Cordie kept her eyes upon the fleeing car. Now they were but three quarters of a block away, now a half, now a quarter.

It was an exciting moment. Beads of perspiration stood out upon the tip of Cordie's nose. The hand that held the reins trembled. They were gaining, gaining, gaining. Through narrow pa.s.sages impossible to a car, old d.i.c.k crowded forward like a fleet, sure-footed dog. Now a yard he gained, now a rod, and now a long stretch of open. They were gaining, gaining, gaining! What were they to do once the car was overtaken? That Cordie could not tell. She only knew one thing clearly--the men in the car must not escape and she was determined to prevent their escape.

Then, as they neared a cross street, a man stepped out on the running board and flashed an automatic. Aiming deliberately, he fired. The next instant, with the din of a hundred sets of brakes screaming in their ears, Cordie, the horse and the man in gray were piled all in a heap in the middle of the street.

In the midst of all this there came a crash. What was that? Dared she hope it was the villains' car? At sound of it the man in gray was up and away like mad.

"What's this?" she heard an unfamiliar voice saying. A man from the nearest car behind them had come to the aid of the girl and the horse.

In the meantime, Lucile was pa.s.sing through experiences quite as strange.

Laurie Seymour had been knocked unconscious by a blow on the head.

Patrick O'Hara had been shot from his horse. How serious were the injuries of these, her friends?

To determine this, then to see what might be done for their relief; this appeared to be her duty, even though Cordie was in grave danger still.

Men pressed forward to a.s.sist her. They carried the unconscious ones into the lobby of a hotel. There they were stretched out upon davenports and remedies applied by the house physician.

Lucile was engaged in stopping the flow of blood from Patrick O'Hara's scalp wound. She chanced to look up and there, at the edge of the davenport, she caught sight of a familiar face.

"Miss Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Two Hundred in gold!" her mind registered automatically, but her fingers held rigidly to their task.

As Cordie struggled to her feet, after being plunged from the back of the fallen horse, she saw the man in gray leap for the side of an automobile that had crashed into the curb. A thrill ran through her as she realized that this was the blue racer. The next instant, after fairly tearing the door from the hinges, the man in gray dragged a man out of the blue car, threw him to the pavement and held him rigidly there.

There came the clatter of horse's hoofs, and then down sprang good old Tim, the police sergeant, and his fellow officer.

"He's a bad one," growled the one in gray. "If you've got handcuffs, put 'em on him."

Tim hesitated. How was an officer to know who was in the right? This might be but a Christmas Eve fight. He had not witnessed the beginning of this affair.

A hand tugged at his sleeve. "If you please, Tim," came a girlish voice, "It's me, the one who stole Patrick O'Hara's horse. If you'll believe me you better take his word for it. He's right."

"Oh, he is, eh?" rumbled Tim. "Little girl, what you say goes. I'd trust you any time. On they go."

The hawk-eyed man, for it was he that had been captured (his accomplice had vanished) made one more desperate effort to escape, but failed. The handcuffs were snapped on and he was led away by the younger officer.

"Now," said Tim in a sterner voice, "tell me how Pat O'Hara's horse comes to be lyin' there in the street?"

"He--he shot him," Cordie gulped, pointing away toward the hawk-eyed man.

"He did, did he? Then he should be hung."

"Pat--Patrick O'Hara's sho--shot too," Cordie was very near to tears. "If it hadn't been for him," she nodded to the figure in gray, "we--we wouldn't have got him, though d.i.c.k and I would have done our--our best, for he--he shot our good good friend Pat O'Hara." At this, Cordie's long pent up tears came flooding forth as she hid her face on good old Tim's broad breast.

"That's all right," he soothed, patting her on the shoulders. "It's not as bad as you think. Look! There's old d.i.c.k getting to his feet now."

It was true. The man in gray had walked over to where d.i.c.k lay, had coaxed the horse to get up, and was now leading him limping to the curb.

"It's only a flesh wound in the leg," he explained. "Give him a week or ten days and he'll be on the beat again. d.i.c.k, old boy," he said huskily, "and you too, dear little Cordie, I want to thank you for what you've done for me. I--I've had my revenge, if a man has a right to revenge. And it might be they'll find the fox skins among his plunder."

The eyes of the man in gray, just now br.i.m.m.i.n.g with honest tears, were turned toward Cordie. It was James, the seaman and bundle carrier!

For a moment he gripped the girl's hand, then turning to Tim, said:

"You'll look after her? See that she gets safely back to her friends?"

"Oh sure! Sure!"

"Then I'll be getting over to the police station. They'll be wanting someone to prefer charges."