One evening she said to him:

“I’m going to drive to Sherman to-morrow, Danny, so we’ll get an early start. Know where Sherman is?”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Burrows.”

“Well, it’s a straight road after we get to Bridesville, where we went yesterday, so we can’t easily get lost. My dressmaker lives at Sherman, which is fifty miles away. That’s only a short journey in the car, and we’ll have luncheon at Bridesville. Just you and I and Irene Macfarlane, you know.”

“Seven o’clock, Miss Burrows?”

“That’s about right, Danny.”

“I’ll be ready, Miss.”

So Mary Louise dismissed the matter from her thoughts and went to bed without a single misgiving.

At a little before seven next morning Irene Macfarlane was wheeled out upon the front yard nearest the driveway, happy and full of good spirits, for a day like this was a rare treat for her. A day with Mary Louise in the splendid new car, with only Mary Louise and her chauffeur for company, luncheon at Bridesville and plenty of room on the back seat was assuredly an event to be regarded with pleasure—and that’s why Mary Louise had chosen her for comrade.

But neither the car nor the uniformed chauffeur were present. The moments rolled on until 7:30 was reached and still no sign of the automobile. Mary Louise ran around to the stables, to find both the car and Danny Dexter absent. Danny had locked the door to his tower and the front door of the stables stood wide open—just as if the young man had prepared for a long day’s trip, but all else seemed in order. There were two checkered robes belonging to the car, but these were gone, as was all else that might be needed on the trip—including the extra gasoline tank, always carried for emergencies. But Danny and car, with its fittings, had absolutely disappeared.

“Perhaps he’s gone for gasoline or oil and been delayed,” pondered Mary Louise on her way back to the side porch. “But it’s quite unlike Danny Dexter to put off such an important thing until the last moment, so I’m afraid one of the parts has broken, and Danny is waiting at the garage to have it replaced. We may as well be patient, Irene, for our fate is in Danny’s hands and I am sure he’ll get us started as soon as possible.”

“It isn’t that,” replied Irene dolefully, “but I’ve got two music lessons to give late this afternoon.”

“Oh, send them word you’re sick and have the dates changed,” suggested Mary Louise. “I’m sure that will satisfy them. And after all, Danny may be here any minute and then all our troubles will be over. As a matter of fact, Danny told me yesterday that the carburetor needed adjusting and that may be what is detaining him. So run along and have Aunt Hannah telephone your pupils.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll go and tell Aunt Hannah right away,” responded the crippled girl, “and I’ll tell her why Danny’s late, too.” She immediately wheeled her chair around and started for her home, being gone less than five minutes; but she needn’t have hurried for Danny hadn’t returned by luncheon time. Irene and Mary Louise spread their basket of lunch on the table on the side porch and had a merry time of it in spite of the missing soldier and his automobile.

“Of course, if he doesn’t come pretty soon now,” admitted Mary Louise, “we must postpone the trip to another day, but we’ll have all that fun added to this, some day when the car is running properly,” promised the owner, and they ate every bit of Aunt Sally’s delicious luncheon and had a really “good time” in spite of their disappointment. Fortunately most of their girl friends, learning of this intended trip, did not come near them the whole day, so they were left alone to their own devices.

As evening approached, nevertheless, Mary Louise began to be uneasy. Gran’pa Jim came home from town and found the two girls playing “muggins” on the porch.

“What! Back already!” he exclaimed.

“Why, we didn’t go,” answered Mary Louise.

“Dressmaker wasn’t ready for you?”

“No. We—we’ve lost the car—and Danny.”

The old gentleman sat down on a chair and whistled slightly.

“Tell me all about it,” he suggested.

Mary Louise complied. Really, there wasn’t much to tell. Danny Dexter had been ordered to be ready with the car at seven o’clock, for a trip to Sherman and had agreed to the proposition. He hadn’t appeared all day; in fact, he and the car were both missing.

“I’ve telephoned the garage and the gasoline station,” concluded the girl, “but he hasn’t been seen at either place to-day. Seems sort of funny, doesn’t it, Gran’pa Jim?”

Grandpa Jim drummed with his fingers rather absently on the rail of the porch.

“I insured the car but not Mr. Dexter,” he remarked slowly. “Odd that a good soldier should turn out a thief, isn’t it?”

“He was absolutely in love with that automobile,” added Irene, eagerly. “He would give anything to own it.”

“Danny is no thief!” asserted Mary Louise, positively. “He may have gotten into trouble with the car, somehow; but steal it—never.”

“Ought—oughtn’t we to do something right away?” asked Irene, diffidently.

“We’ve wasted the whole day already,” Colonel Hathaway replied with a smile; “perhaps a night and a day, if he had already made up his mind to take the car. In that time he could get a long distance away from us. And we’ve no idea what direction he took. Some auto thieves go direct to the cities to hide, while others feel they are safer in the country roads. Anyhow, I think we’d best call up Chief Lonsdale and ask his advice.”

“To be sure!” exclaimed Mary Louise, excitedly. “Why didn’t we think of that before? We’ve made mistake after mistake all day long. I’ll go in and telephone him at once.”

The Colonel held her back. “If the Chief’s to understand what we mean and what we want, I’d better talk with him myself. You grow more and more muddled the more you talk with a person over the wire.”

So he rose deliberately and went into the house, and soon they heard the Colonel telling the whole story of Danny Dexter to the Chief of Police. He told it concisely and “without any frills or rigmaroles,” as Irene admitted, and Chief Lonsdale ended by promising to come over at once if they’ll give him some supper. “It won’t be as good as I’d get at home,” he added, “but Aunt Sally isn’t the worst cook in Dorfield by any means.”

The old Colonel chuckled and hung up the receiver, and before long, in drove Chief Lonsdale in his Ford and anchored it near the front door.

“Evenin’, Charlie,” was the Colonel’s greeting as they shook hands.

“Evening, Colonel,” responded the Chief, hanging up his overcoat and hat. “Been gettin’ yourself inter trouble, eh?”

“No, ’twas Mary Louise who considered a soldier must be, perforce, an honest man.”

“I know him, and I believe she’s right in this case,” replied Charlie Lonsdale. “If your man-of-all-work isn’t honest, I’m not honest and no judge of an honest man.”

Irene, who had remained to supper, although she lived next door, clapped her hands gleefully. Mary Louise walked around the table and kissed the Chief upon his grizzly chin; the Colonel alone frowned.

“Think I’m going to eat over here and take ‘potluck’ for nothing?” inquired the Chief.

“You’re an old idiot,” declared Colonel Hathaway, who was very fond of the Chief of Police and often had him over for a Sunday dinner.

“If the stranger soldier hadn’t been all right,” responded the other, “do you think I’d let you keep him and allow him to take charge of Mary Louise’s precious auto? Or risk my poor stomach on corned beef and cabbage, such as we’re going to have presently?”

“Why, how did you know that?” asked Mary Louise. “I didn’t know that myself until you told me!”

“Eyes—nose—presently, taste,” said the policeman, laughing at them. “Saw Aunt Sally lugging it home in a basket this morning—”

“But—”

“Smelled it when I came into the house just now.” Then he continued, laughingly:

“Have been hankering for corned beef all day, and that’s the reason I invited myself over.”

“You know you’re always welcome, Charlie,” said the Colonel, highly pleased, “and we’ll have a couple of these fine ‘Cannel’ cigars after the meal,” promised the Colonel. “I keep a few of them on hand just for guests like you.”

“This don’t seem much like finding my car—and poor Danny Dexter,” pouted Mary Louise. “That machine can easily go sixty miles an hour, so we may be fifty miles farther away from it since you arrived, Chief Lonsdale.”

“Possible,” admitted the Chief, “and it’ll take an hour more to eat supper and—I may stay with you all night. Still we didn’t fix any time limit on capturing the thief, so there’s no hurry that I can see.”

Irene and the Colonel were nervous and—to an extent—so was Mary Louise, but the latter girl was more composed than the others. As for the Chief, he seemed to have forgotten all about the task on which they had embarked—after he had telephoned to some man in his office.