The Mystery Megapack

the journey was done. Once or twice the travelers had passed automobiles, but these were few and far between. The hour was now two-thirty in the morning.
    McClung glanced backward. Later he did it again. Then again. Gradually Petey noticed that the other was looking rearward steadily.
    “What’s the matter?” asked Petey irritably.
    “Why don’t that fellow pass us?” exclaimed McClung irritably. “He’s been hanging on for two miles!”
    Petey craned his neck. Behind them the vague black outline of a big and expensive car was rolling along less than a hundred feet away like a silent, mysterious shadow, without headlights or sign of human occupancy except for that steady, guided roll along the road. It kept its distance like a soldier on parade. In a short time it seemed to Petey’s strained imagination like some grim Nemesis trailing along on their heels.
    “Slow down!” mumbled McClung. “Give ’em a chance to pass. Maybe they’re not after us anyhow.”
    Petey’s impulse was for speed, but he obeyed. The machine took the pace of a snail. It lingered and loitered and loafed. And yet, when Petey turned back impatiently at length, the dark follower was just a hundred feet behind them.
    Petey stepped on the accelerator. The auto leaped forward. It sizzled along the road like a comet, ignoring the danger of possible speed patrolmen. The machine roared and swayed and rocked. House, fences, and poles seemed to melt past in one dark blur. A little town whizzed by. They came to the open country again. Then Petey looked back.
    The big, silent machine was just a hundred feet behind them.
    “They’re after us!” groaned McClung. “They’re trailin’ us into the city! Tryin’ to sneak along behind us in the dark! Thought we couldn’t see ’em!”
    “Maybe they got to the house just as we left!” chattered Petey. “Gee! What shall we do now?”
    McClung’s left hand was clutching Petey’s arm. A thrill of apprehension seemed to circulate through both of them. McClung’s right hand moved and his body changed position. The faint glint of a pistol-barrel showed in his right hand.
    “No—nix!” quavered Petey. “Nix—nix!”
    “We can’t get away any other way!” grunted McClung savagely. “I ain’t goin’ to get stuck behind bars!”
    “Nix—lay off!” protested Petey vehemently. “That won’t do no good. Let’s take a side road. Maybe we can shake ’em!”
    “Shake ’em?” snarled McClung. “In this old bus? Why, that big gazump’ll climb all over us on a rough road! Lemme alone! I’ll shoot—see? Maybe it’ll hold ’em back some. Then we’ll get ahead and sneak down the side road. See?”
    Petey had nothing more to say. His brain was frozen. Thoughts of prison made him shudder, yet the thought of taking this way to avoid prison made him shudder still more. The enterprise had gone beyond his capabilities. He felt himself in the hands of fate, and resigned himself, wishing he were back in that safe and comfortable room over the garage.
    There was a blinding flash and a roar to Petey’s right. The pistol spat flame rearward. Petey gulped and put on more speed and looked back. The big machine behind them applied brakes so desperately that the skirl of them could be heard above the roar of Petey’s motor and the wind. The follower seemed to evaporate into the fog with one banshee shriek of brakes.
    “Hey!” yelled a sudden sharp voice to Petey’s left. “What’s the idea?”
    A motorcycle was roaring alongside, and on it was a semiuniformed man wearing an official star! That shot had caused his appearance!
    McClung turned. Petey could not see his face, but knew it was livid with anger and desperation. McClung’s right arm swung to the left. The scared Petey grasped his wrist madly and clutched it tight. McClung’s savage left fist tried to strike at him. Petey let go the wheel and grappled. The car swayed and swerved. Both men were cold with terror and utterly rattled. McClung’s right hand twitched. The pistol roared again, and blew a piece off the top of their car.
    A heavy and masterful hand slipped between them. The servant of the law was on the running-board, wrenching the pistol from McClung’s hand. Alongside the machine another motorcycle was coming up. McClung swore sinfully. The uniformed person produced a pistol and jammed the muzzle behind McClung’s ear. Petey slowed down, halted, sighed, and put up his hands.
    “What’s the idea of this Buffalo Bill