"Who are you, my friend?" inquired Burton bluntly.

"A friend of Motor Matt," replied Twomley easily. "He'll vouch for me, I fancy."

"Mr. Twomley, attaché of the British Legation at Washington, Burton," said Matt. "Mr. Burton," Matt added to the Englishman, "is the proprietor of the show. The other lad is Carl Pretzel, who is also a chum of mine. We can talk over this matter before them. Carl had everything to do with the finding of Margaret Manners, back there at Lafayette."

"Aw," drawled Twomley, screwing his monocle in his eye, and regarding the Dutch boy, "he's the claimant for that thousand pounds reward, I dare say."

Tremors of excitement ran galloping through Carl.

"Haf you prought der money?" he fluttered. "Vas you looking for me to pay ofer dot rewart?"

"I am sorry to say that I haven't brought the money. That matter is still in abeyance."

"Vat iss dot?" asked the puzzled Carl. "I don'd verstch dot vort apeyance."

"He means the matter is still pending, Carl," put in Matt. "In other words, you haven't got the money yet."

"I know dot, aber vill I ged it? Dot's vat gifs me some vorries."

"The rajah's a regular topper," said Twomley. "He'd never miss a thousand pounds, and I fancy he'll do the right thing."

"Mooch opliged," breathed Carl, in deep satisfaction. "It vas a habbiness to know dot I ged him some dime."

"Now, if you wish," went on Twomley, stretching out his hand for the letter.

"Just a moment, Mr. Twomley," said Matt. "We don't know much about this letter, and I'd like to find out where and how Carl got it, and what the dispute is about."

The Dutch boy launched into an explanation, beginning with the Roman candle and ending at the place where Burton refused to turn the letter over to Wily Bill. Carl touched but lightly on the culpability of Ping in the matter of the Roman candle. In this he was wise. Motor Matt's orders were to the effect that there should be no bickering between the Dutch boy and the Chinese lad. They had been at swords' points for a long while and had only recently developed a friendly feeling for each other.

"I always sized up that Wily Bill for a false alarm," remarked McGlory. "Can he read that Hindoostanee lingo? I'll bet my spurs he can't! If that's the case, what's he doing with the letter?"

"He must have wanted it a whole lot," said Matt, "or he wouldn't have made such a fight to get it. Perhaps the letter itself will be a clue. Tell us what's in it, Mr. Twomley," and Matt passed the letter to the Englishman.

The latter studied the sheet with absorbed attention. Finally he sprang up.

"By Jove!" he exploded.

"What's the matter?" inquired Matt.

"This is luck! Just fancy such a clue coming into our hands at this very moment when it is most needed. Aw, it's—aw—incredible."

"You might give us a chance to pass judgment on that, Mr. Twomley," returned Burton. "Maybe it's not so incredible as you seem to think."

"It was written by Ben Ali," said the attaché.

"That tinhorn!" exclaimed McGlory. "I thought we'd cut him out of our herd altogether. Beats creation how he keeps bobbing up."

"Who's it for?" spoke up Matt. "Has Bill Wily any right to it?"

"The name of Wily doesn't appear anywhere in the writing," answered Twomley. "In fact, the letter's addressed to a fellow named Dhondaram."

Here was another hot shot. Both McGlory and Matt were brought excitedly to their feet.

"Dhondaram!" growled Burton, with an expressive glance at the king of the motor boys. "I thought we'd heard the last of that villain."

"Who was he?" demanded Twomley.

"A Hindoo——"

[Pg 7]

"So I gather from the name."

"He blew into the show grounds with a cobra and a home-made flute, when we were at Jackson, and I gave him Ben Ali's place as driver of our man-killin' elephant, Rajah. Oh, he did a lot of things, Dhondaram did. We captured him, but he got loose and dropped off the train between stations."

"Aw, Ben Ali didn't know that," reflected Twomley. "Ben Ali must have thought he was still with the show, and sent this letter to him."

"What does the letter say?" asked Matt, with some impatience.

"It asked Dhondaram to finish his work as soon as possible and to join Ben Ali, with the money, in short order."

A silence followed, and during the silence the motor boys exchanged wondering looks.

"What was Dhondaram's work?" queried Twomley.

"Nothing more or less than putting Pard Matt out of the running," replied McGlory. "Ben Ali's on the warpath against Matt, because of what he did in Lafayette, and Dhondaram tried hard to wipe my pard off the slate."

"Ben Ali speaks of money," went on Twomley. "What does that mean?"

Burton muttered wrathfully.

"I'll bet a thousand," said he, "that refers to the proceeds of the afternoon performance in Jackson, which the ticket man and this Dhondaram tried to get away with. Ben Ali put up the job with Dhondaram, and the ticket man was helping them out."

"Matters must have been lively all around in Jackson," observed Twomley. "Dhondaram didn't get the money?"

"Not so you could notice," answered McGlory. "Pard Matt jumped in and plugged that little game."

"Ben Ali," reasoned the king of the motor boys, "has probably been thinking of recapturing Miss Manners for some time. All he had Dhondaram try to do, in Jackson, was to help on his villainous schemes. But Dhondaram failed. Probably Ben Ali is needing some money pretty badly, about now. What is the date of that letter, Mr. Twomley?"

"There is no date."

"Then there's no telling how long Bill Wily has carried it in his pocket?"

The attaché shook his head.

"He must have got it after we left Jackson, pard," interposed McGlory. "If he had got it before, he'd have passed it on to Dhondaram."

"How he got it at all is a mystery," mused the young motorist. "He has probably seen and talked with Ben Ali."

"Before the show got to Jackson, then," continued the cowboy, who was doing a little sharp thinking. "If he had talked with Ben Ali after the doings in Jackson, he'd have told the old skinner how Dhondaram fell down."

"There's a clue here, but it's not so promising as it might be," came disappointedly from the Englishman.

Matt walked toward the tent door.

"Our best clue," said he decisively, "is Bill Wily. We'd better go to the side show and have a talk with him."

"Bring him here, Matt," suggested Burton. "We can talk with him in this place to better advantage than in the side-show tent. I'll go with you and make sure he comes. The rest of you wait," and the showman started from the calliope tent after Matt.

Inquiry of the man on the door at the side show developed the fact that Bill Wily had started for town. He had been gone about five minutes, Matt and Burton were informed, and had left the show grounds for the street-car track.

"He's making a getaway!" averred Burton.

"That's the way it looks," agreed Matt. "We've got to stop him, if we can."

Without loss of time the king of the motor boys and the showman hustled for the place where the street-car track made a loop, just beyond a big concert garden. They were hoping to catch Wily before he could board a car.

But in this they were disappointed. A car was moving off in the direction of town, and all their frantic yells and gestures were powerless to secure the attention of the conductor.

"It'll be fifteen minutes before there's another car," panted Burton, "and by that time the 'barker' will be—the deuce only knows where. It's a cinch, Matt, that he's scared, and is running away. If there was an automobile handy, we could overhaul the car." Burton looked in every direction. "But, of course," he added, "whenever you want a chug-wagon there's none in sight."

A familiar humming drew Motor Matt's attention. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a motor-cycle spinning along the road from the direction of Grand Rapids. A young fellow of nineteen or twenty was in the saddle.

"There's something that will do—if we can borrow it," said Matt, and jumped into the road and waved his hands.

The motorcycle came to a stop.

"Are you flagging me?" asked the driver of the machine.

"Yes," said Matt hurriedly. "I want to overhaul the street car that just left here. There's a man aboard that we've got to catch. Will you let me take your motorcycle?"

"Well, I guess not!" was the reply. "The last time I loaned this machine I was two days getting it back into shape again."

"I'll give you twenty dollars for the use of it, young man," put in Burton eagerly.

"No inducement," was the answer.

"There's hard luck for you, Motor Matt," grunted Burton.

The young fellow had been on the point of starting away, but he suddenly paused and turned to Matt.

"Are you Matt King," he asked, "the fellow they call Motor Matt?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Doing an a?roplane stunt with the show?"

"Yes."

"Well, take the machine. It won't cost you a cent, either. I work in a motor-car factory in the Rapids, and we've heard a good deal about you there. I'm tickled to death to be able to help you out. Bring the machine back here when you're done with it, and you'll find me waiting."

"Such is fame!" laughed Burton.

With a hasty word of thanks, Matt headed the machine the other way and got into the saddle.

[Pg 8]

One turn of the pedal and the motor took up its cycle. Half a minute later the king of the motor boys was out of sight down the road.