AT THE LAST MINUTE.

At midnight, Monday night, the police of Ottawa arrested a man who was trying to get out of town on a freight train. The man was Slocum.

Slocum was taken immediately to jail. His nerve had entirely failed him and he was in a pitiable state of collapse. He admitted his guilt in the matter of Motor Matt's disappearance, and offered to make a confession providing no legal steps were taken in his case and he was allowed to go free.

Trueman was sent for; also the district attorney. Both recognized that Slocum was only a tool, and in order to get at those who were more culpable it was agreed to accept his sworn confession and to release him in case it developed that no harm had befallen Motor Matt.

Slocum's confession implicated indirectly every member of the Drivers' Club, but had most to do with Sercomb, Mings, and Packard, and held up Sercomb as the ringleader.

It was Sercomb who had prepared the two typewritten papers—one for Matt to read and the other for him to sign—which Slocum had juggled with so successfully in the Denver hotel; and it was Sercomb who had paid Slocum's fare and expenses to Kansas in order that, at the right moment, he might administer the cannibis indica.

On the basis of this confession, a warrant was issued for Sercomb but was to be held back and not served until just before he was to get away in the race. Also the whole matter dealing with Slocum's arrest and confession was kept a secret so that the arrest and removing from the contest of Stark-Frisbie's crack racer might be successfully accomplished.

This work of the police filled Trueman with a negative satisfaction. It did not help him out of his own particular difficulty for he was still minus a driver.

Chub who was so worked up over Matt's disappearance and his helplessness in doing anything to find him that he could not keep down his impatience and restlessness, offered to drive the car in Matt's place, or to ride as mechanic with whoever did drive it. Chub had taken lessons from Matt in driving a motor-car, and he had always been wonderfully handy about machinery.

Trueman, however, had made up his mind to drive the car himself, but he was glad to have Chub along to attend to the various duties of mecanicien.

While Chub had thus found something to do to take his mind temporarily away from Matt, Carl was in different condition. He moped around the hotel, filled with gloom and discouragement and waiting hopelessly for news.

The town was filled with an enthusiastic mob of people, and the only thing that was talked about, or thought about, was race, race, race! But Carl had lost interest in the race now that it seemed certain Matt was out of it. Chub had all he could do to get Carl to go to the Park when he and Trueman took out the red racer.

"Vat's der use oof going any blace or doing anyt'ing?" said Carl dejectedly. "Matt vas down und oudt mit a dope und life don'd vas vort' der lifing. Vell, meppy I go along mit you, Chub. I got to be somevere."

Although Trueman was a terribly disappointed man, and expected only to finish the course, and had no thought of winning, he made his preparations with as much care as though Matt was to be at the steering-wheel and perhaps drive No. 13 to victory. New tires and new chains were put on, and the hundred and one little things always demanded by a big race were attended to.

The grand stand at the Park was choked with people. Overflowing the seats, the throng packed itself densely along the fences on both sides of the race-track. But the crowds were not confined to the Ottawa end of the course. Over its whole extent from the Park to Le Loup, from Le Loup to Coal Run, and from Coal Run back to the Park again, the circuit was lined with people. They came from the contiguous country in wagons, from various parts of the state in automobiles, and from all over the West by train. The sportsman instinct animated the majority of them, and others had a morbid interest in an affair that might be filled with wreck and tragedy.

Mounted officers patrolled the circuit and kept the crowd back of the danger line.

Each car's weight, with tanks empty, was limited to fifteen hundred pounds. The weighing-in was going forward when Trueman, Chub, and Carl reached the track. The owners of cars that were overweight had to do some more stripping while those that were under the limit found that they could take aboard some necessary appliances of which they were quick to avail themselves.

Mr. Borden, the gray-haired patron of the race, was in evidence here and there about the grounds. It was the first of the races, for which he stood sponsor, ever run in the vicinity of his home town, and he was as pleased as a four-year-old with a tin whistle.

Colonel Plympton was prominently in the public eye, mingling with the Stark-Frisbie drivers and mechanics and giving personal attention to every car. Lambert, of the rival concern, was filling a corresponding position with his own cars and drivers. Many other firms had their representatives on the spot.

The first car to start was a Stark-Frisbie, 70-h.-p., with Joe Mings at the wheel. It got away in a perfect bedlam of cheers.

Two minutes later, car Number Two with Patsy Grier driving for Bly-Lambert, was sent from the tape. It shot away like a streak, and was through the gap in the fence and bound for the river before the wild yelling had died away.

Next came three touring-cars, driven by local celebrities, all out for a good time and caring little about the race.

Then came a No. 6 Bly-Lambert with Balt Finn up, then another touring-car, then a little 40-horse racer, then a No. 9 Stark-Frisbie, Packard driving.

As Packard got away, a wild-eyed, disheveled youth shot through the crowd lining the track and broke into the banked racers that were waiting for the start.

"Mr. Trueman! Out of there, quick! Give me your racing clothes."

Trueman and Chub, sitting in the No. 13 and gloomily awaiting the word to come forward for the start, nearly jumped from their seats.

"Matt!" gasped Trueman.

His face cleared as if by magic. There was no time for explanations—no time for anything but to attend to the business immediately in hand.

"Hooray!" cried Chub. "How are you, pard?"

Matt stopped and stared as he got into the gear Trueman was throwing at him.

"Chub!" he exclaimed. "Well, this is a surprise! I've been having a lot of surprises lately."

"We've found out all about what happened," said Trueman. "Slocum doped you. He tried to get away but was caught and has made a confession. On the basis of that confession a warrant is out for Sercomb, and he will be arrested and taken from his car before he starts."

Matt's eyes drifted through the parked automobiles until they rested on the driver of No. 19. Through his goggles the driver was staring at Matt. It was Sercomb, and Motor Matt's appearance evidently astounded him.

"Don't arrest him, Mr. Trueman, until the race is over," said Matt.

"But——"

"I mean it! Let's make this a clean race and a clean win. It will be better for the Jarrot people, better for me, better for everybody."

"Well, if you insist——"

"I do insist. That's the way I want it."

Matt climbed into the low-hung body of the car and lost himself to the head and shoulders in the driver's seat. The starter was looking toward them and throwing up his hand. Trueman jumped to "turn over" the engine, and Matt made for the starting tape.

In spite of cap and goggles some of those in the grandstand recognized Matt. They were those who had seen him working like a Trojan over the circuit for a week, who had heard about his mysterious disappearance, and who now welcomed his return with hearty cheers.

Matt got away in grand style, whisked around the track and darted through the break in the fence.

As soon as Sercomb, in the last Stark-Frisbie car, had started, Plympton went over to where Trueman was standing.

"I'm glad King got back," said the colonel. "His disappearance had an ugly look."

"It still has an ugly look, Plympton," returned Trueman.

"Of course! But King's all right. That's the main point."

"It's a good thing for you that he got back," went on Trueman.

"I don't see how you figure that. If what I hear of him is true, he's a star-driver. It isn't a good thing for us to have star-drivers running cars against us."

"But for King, Plympton, one of your crack men would have been out of this race."

"What do you mean, Trueman?" asked the colonel curiously.

"Do you see that sandy-whiskered man over there?" asked Trueman, pointing.

"Yes."

"Well, he's an officer in plain-clothes. In his pocket he has a warrant for Sercomb's arrest. He'd have served the warrant and taken Sercomb out of the race if King hadn't said No."

"A put-up job, eh, to get rid of our best man!" scowled Plympton.

"No put-up job about it," answered Trueman. "Sercomb was responsible for the hocussing of King."

"Come, come!" growled Plympton angrily. "You've got too much sense, Trueman, to take any stock in such a yarn as that."

"Have I? Well, read this over and then tell me how much stock you take in it."

With that, he handed Slocum's confession to Plympton. The latter read it with consternation in his face.

"It seems incredible!" he muttered, as he passed the paper back. "Whether he wins or loses, this is Sercomb's last race for Stark-Frisbie."

"I thought so!" chuckled Trueman, returning the document to his pocket.