"Hang it," Ostrander answered. "1 wanted to see Linda. Oh well, that's all water under the bridge. Well, Rob, it was a great trip. Thanks for being so generous as to share it with me."

  And Ostrander gripped Rob Trenton's hand, his eyes smiling and friendly. "Sorry you were so darned sick there in Paris."

  That recalled a situation to Rob Trenton's mind. "Say," he said, "you remember those capsules you gave me?"

  "Sure. They'd have fixed you right up if they'd stayed with you. They must have bounded off your stomach like a tennis ball off a cement court and ..."

  "I didn't take them," Rob confessed. "I had a particularly violent spell of retching and dropped them in the pocket of my bathrobe. The Customs men searched every ..."

  "Where are they now?" Ostrander interrupted.

  "The Customs men took them."

  Ostrander stood frowning, his face masking his feelings from Rob Trenton. Abruptly he turned, said, "Oh well, they'll probably be dumb enough to analyse them. Well, so long, Rob. I'm on my way"

  He walked off, his long legs taking great strides - a big man going some place in one hell of a hurry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rob Trenton counted the minutes until he could get out of the congested lanes of city traffic and find less crowded roads. Curled up in the rear seat, Lobo slept with his head on his paws. The dog now had sufficient confidence in his new master to accept whatever his new environment might be with complete assurance.

  The car whined on through the night. Gradually the lights of approaching automobiles became more infrequent. At first there were breaks in the procession of approaching cars, then gradually the distance between the cars themselves became greater, until finally there were intervals up to as much as several minutes at a time when Rob Trenton's eyes were spared the glare of approaching headlights.

  Just as Rob Trenton dared to make an estimate as to the time he would arrive at the little farmhouse where he maintained his kennels, he felt the car swerve to the right, heard the bang of a blown-out tyre and then was fighting the wheel to hold the machine straight on the road while he angled off to one side, touching the brakes at intervals very gently until he had the car well over on the verge.

  The dog, up on all fours at the unexpected swing, was peering through the windshield.

  Rob brought the car to a stop, quieted the dog, got out tools, jacked the car up and started to work.

  47

  It was while he was changing the tyre that he first noticed the peculiar bulge on the underside of the car's frame.

  It seemed to be a smooth swelling in the metal, evidently housing some sort of a gear box, but there was certainly no evidence to indicate that any mechanism was supposed to be concealed under the swelling. Rob conducted an exploratory tapping with the handle of the wrench. The metal 'blister' seemed to be hollow.

  The little flashlight was getting dim, but curiosity and a certain cold suspicion brought decision to Rob Trenton's mind.

  He drove to the next town where he was able to procure a cold chisel and hammer, a larger flashlight and fresh batteries.

  Ten miles down the road he again stopped the car, waited until there was a complete break in the traffic, then crawled under the car, adjusted the flashlight and tapped at the border of the steel blister with the edge of the cold chisel held firmly in position.

  The blister peeled off as though it had been half a melon and a cascade of packages wrapped in oiled silk dropped to the highway.

  Rob Trenton had no need to examine these oiled silk packages to know what they were.

  A disillusioning bitterness filled Trenton until there was even the taste of it in his mouth. So he had been used as an unwilling accomplice. There actually had been some foundation for those anonymous letters which had been sent to the Customs.

  Yet Rob could hardly picture Linda Carroll as a smuggler. He felt that she herself must have been victimised. And, having reached that decision, he knew that he must protect her against a premature discovery. Not until he had unearthed the real criminal could Linda be permitted to know what had happened. And, in the meantime, no matter what the cost, the authorities must be kept from any further search. Their suspicions already aroused, it would only be a short time before they would think of the car in which Linda Carroll, Merton Ostrander and Rob Trenton had made their European tour.

  Rob's palms were cold with perspiration as he thought of what would happen if some State Police patrol car, seeing his machine stopped by the side of the road, should pull up alongside and seek the cause of the trouble.

  There was a short-handled shovel in the tool kit, one which had been carried through Europe in case of emergencies; and now in a frenzy of desperation Rob Trenton took the shovel from its place, moved over to the side of the road, near the fence, removed the sod, and quickly dug a hole some two feet deep, wrapped the oiled silk packages in a newspaper, shoved the whole thing down in the hole, placed the metal disc on top, and replaced the dirt as best he could. Then he fitted into place the circle of sod which he had carefully cut when he started the hole.

  He checked the mileage on the speedometer of the little car, then with his pocket knife made a little blaze on a wooden fence post at the roadside.

  Then he opened his notebook and drew a sketch map showing the exact location where he had stopped the car. A road sign some fifty feet ahead of the car gave mileages to the cities ahead and Rob carefully copied these distances in his book as well as the number of fence posts between the car and the sign.

  He replaced the shovel and was just closing the toolbox when headlights coming along the road behind him suddenly swerved to the right, etching the little car in white brilliance. Abruptly a double red spotlight on the roof of the oncoming car sent an oscillating beam along the highway in both directions. The car drew up behind him and a uniformed state patrolman got out and walked forward.

  "Having trouble?" he asked.

  "Had a flat," Rob Trenton said, "but I have it fixed now. I just put the tools away." And then by way of confirmation, as though he might need something in the way of proof, he pounded his fist, into the mushy softness of the blown-out tyre which he had placed on the rack. "It certainly let go all at once," he said.

  The trooper, following Rob's example, pounded the soft tyre, nodded, said, "All right. Good luck," and walked back to his car. He took a notebook from the front seat and started writing.

  Trenton realised that with the new regulations motor patrolmen were called on to note every stop which they made on their run, and realised that the man would note the time, the place, and might well also make a note of the licence number on Trenton's automobile.

  He opened the door and started to get in the car, but the patrolman, notebook in hand, was walking towards him once more. "Hate to bother you when you're having trouble," he said, smiling affably, "but since we're already stopped, I'll just make a check on your driving licence. I like to make a routine check every so often."

  Wordlessly, Rob Trenton opened his pocket billfold, extracted the driving licence in its plastic container and handed it to the officer who checked it carefully, nodded, handed it back, and said, "Well, good luck."

  "Thanks," Trenton said, and jumped in behind the wheel.

  "Nice dog you have there."

  "Yes, he is."

  "Vicious?"

  "He's all right ... only ... 1 wouldn't pet him," Trenton said.

  He felt certain that if he had wanted to disclose his business, this man would know who he was. Some of the state troopers were familiar with the work that was being done with the training of their dogs and several of Rob Trenton's 'pupils' had gone to the State Police here. However, Rob was in no mood for conversation. He wanted only to get away from there.

  The state trooper was at the rear of Rob's car. As Rob climbed in the driver's seat he felt the jar as the trooper's fist once more thudded on the deflated tyre. In the rear-view mirror he could see that the trooper was inspecting the gash in the casing.

  "Okay?" Rob Trenton called.

  "Okay" the trooper said.

  Rob Trenton eased the car into gear, made time down the road, keeping an eye on his speedometer, taking great pains not to exceed the legal limit, watching in the rear-view mirror to see if the lights of the state patrol car followed.

  But the State Police car remained where it was parked, the red spotlight shimmering a warning in both directions up and down the road. Two other motorists came whizzing along behind and their headlights drowned out the view Rob Trenton had in the rear-view mirror of what was taking place behind him.

  Trenton devoted his attention to driving the car.

  After a mile or so he slowed and let the two other cars come on past.

  The road behind was clear now. There were no reflections of headlights in the rear-view mirror. The State Police car at least had not followed along behind. Rob hoped nothing had happened to arouse the suspicions of the officer.

  Cautiously he depressed his foot on the pedal, bringing the quivering speedometer needle up above the legal limit. It would be approximately an hour before he could turn in to his own farm, where Joe Colton, the deaf caretaker, had been caring for the dogs while Rob had been away in Europe.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a new and disquieting experience for Rob Trenton to feel that he was dodging the law. However, he felt certain Linda could have had nothing to do with the cache of smuggled drugs and welcomed the opportunity to clear her by ascertaining the real culprit.

  However, this ambition which seemed so thoroughly logical to him as he drove along began to present practical difficulties as he started planning his moves. Every mile that he covered brought new dangers to his mind. Quite obviously someone who would have used Linda Carroll as an unwitting tool in a smuggling operation running into the tens of thousands of dollars would hardly submit tamely to such amateurish outside interference as Rob Trenton could at the moment think up. A vague disquiet filled him with apprehension. He had a few hours of grace at the most. Then the smuggler would find that the cache had been disturbed. And then what?

  Rob thought of several possibilities, none of which appealed to him. Quite obviously he could never go to the police. It was too late for that now. He had burnt his bridges so far as the police were concerned. Not only could he offer no adequate defence that would protect Linda, but he could never explain his actions in burying the oiled silk packages; and the date of the newspaper in which they were wrapped would be a damning link in the chain of evidence.

  Rob realised that he was definitely and entirely on his own, realised also the very strong possibility that he was dealing not with one man, but a gang. There must have been more than three pounds in those oiled silk packages, and even Rob's comparative ignorance of values was not such that he failed to recognise a well-planned operation of considerable magnitude.

  It was nine-thirty when Rob Trenton picked up the lights of the litde village which was so familiar to him. The T & C cafe was open and an oblong of light spread out from the window to splash in vivid orange on the sidewalk. A filling station was a blaze of white illumination. Aside from that the town was closed up for the night and the headlights of the little car danced along the road as Rob passed the town, went a mile and a half, turned to the right for two miles, then turned in at his little farm.

  He had sent Joe Colton a wire stating that he would arrive late that night. There was a light on in the kitchen and one by the kennels.

  Rob Trenton gave two rapid blasts of the horn as he turned in at the gate, and then realised that the horn would do no good because of Joe's deafness.

  However, as Trenton piloted the car around the back circle of the driveway and the lights shone on the kitchen window, old Joe came hobbling out, his face wreathed with a welcoming grin.

  Leaning heavily on his cane, Joe hurried over to the car. "How're you coming, boss?"

  Knowing Joe's deafness, Rob waited until the door was open before he shouted, "Hello, Joe, how're you feeling?"

  It was at the sound of Rob Trenton's voice that pandemonium broke loose in the kennels. The dogs had been carefully trained not to bark, but the sound of Rob's voice put too great a strain on their self-control and once the first bark of the younger dog broke the precedent, they were beyond all restraint.

  Even Joe's calloused old ears took cognisance of that racket. He grinned at Rob Trenton as he shook hands and said, "Reckon you've got to speak to 'em now they've heard your voice."'

  Lobo standing up in the back of the car, was growling throatily, then whining.

  Trenton said to the big German Shepherd, "You wait there, Lobo, till I've gone over and paved the way."

  There were ten dogs in the kennels, and ten eagerly whining canines greeted their returned master. Ten moist snouts had to muzzle against his hand and then, the greetings done, Rob returned to the car, brought Lobo back with him and introduced him to the dogs, one at a time, through the wire-meshed doors of the individual kennels. He then returned with Lobo to the house and said "1 hate to make the other dogs jealous, Joe, but this boy is strange and he'll have to sleep on my bed tonight until he gets accustomed to the place and knows the other dogs, then we'll fix a kennel for him and he can live with the others and lake training."

  Joe, in the cracked monotone of a man who cannot hear the cadences of his own voice, said, "Things been going all right while you've been gone. Kept all the dogs on training, putting them through the regular routine every day. Kept them fed up nice, and they're all feeling pretty good. What kind of a trip did you have?"

  He showed that he hardly expected an answer. Hearing was such an effort with him that he preferred to ramble on.

  "How's Europe anyway?"

  Rob nodded and smiled, motioned towards the car and said, "I'll get my baggage in."

  "How's that?"

  Joe cupped his hands back of his ears and Rob shouted, "I'll get my baggage in."

  Joe hobbled out to give what help he could and the men carried Rob's bags in. Rob stacked them in the corner of his bedroom, leaving them unopened, taking only pyjamas and toilet articles from his overnight bag.

  Lobo walked stiff-legged around the room, his nose inspecting every nook and corner, then, finally deciding that the bed belonged to that of his new-found master, looked inquiringly.

  Rob nodded and said, "All right, boy," and Lobo jumped up on the bed with such light grace that his feet barely seemed to depress the covers.

  "Got her all made up fresh for you," Joe said. "How about something to eat? Want to have a little bite?"

  Rob shook his head.

  "Well, I reckon you're tired. How about that car? I didn't understand about that."

  "I'll tell you in the morning."

  "How ..."

  "Later on," Rob shouted.

  "Okay," Joe said, and went hobbling about the kitchen getting things ready for the night, asking a hundred questions without waiting for the answers.

  "Get to Paris? ... Did, eh? ... How's that Folies whatchamaycallit? ... Good, eh? ... Right up to specifications ... heh-heh-heh ... Bet you had a front seat. Liked that Switzerland scenery all right, eh? Thought you would ... Lots of lakes and mountains, I s'pose ..."

  And so old Joe went on with a rambling interrogation, answering all the questions himself. So far as any contribution to the conversation was concerned, Rob might as well have remained in Europe. But his physical presence was all that was required to give Joe's answers to his own questions sufficient authenticity to satisfy him. For years now he had been too deaf to bother with the long drawn-out process of listening to the other man, save in matters of great importance, so he contented himself with a series of one-sided conversations.

  It seemed good to Rob Trenton to be once more splashing in his own shower, working up plenty of suds in the soft water, then drying off, getting into pyjamas and climbing into bed.

  The huge windows were wide open, and through the heavy screen came the myriad night noises of the country and a benediction of fresh, pure air which gave the tired traveller^ lungs a feeling of drinking in pure, cool refreshment.

  Rob settled under the covers. Lobo adjusted himself so that he was curled against the feet of his new master, and Trenton slept.

  Some time towards morning Trenton was aroused by the dog. The animal was growling throatily.

  "That's all right, Lobo," Trenton assured him drowsily. "Lie down, it's just a new home."

  But the dog stood stiff and rigid, growling. Then with his paw he scratched at the covers over Rob's legs. Annoyed, Trenton said, "Down, Lobo. Down, 1 say."

  The dog sank back down on the bed, but his muscles were taut as springs.

  Trenton fought his way back from a deeper bliss of refreshing slumber to put out a hand in the general direction of the dog. He patted the animal once or twice reassuringly, said, "It's all right, boy, keep quiet," and promptly went back to sleep.

  In the morning he awoke with sunshine streaming through the windows, the lace curtains fluttering with the morning breeze. He felt that his blood had been washed clean in an oxygen bath, that he had been aerated, renewed and filled with vitality.

  Lobo, stretched out on the bed in complete oblivion, seemed to be enjoying the advantages of his first day off the ship.

  "All right, Lobo," Rob grinned. "It's time to arise and greet the dawn."

  The dog opened his eyes, thumped his tail against the foot of the bed, then came crawling up for a morning greeting, putting his head on Rob's chest, letting Rob's fingers rough the hair of his forehead and around his ears.

  "All right, boy, let's go," Rob said, and Lobo gained the floor with a quick leap.

  Trenton stretched, yawned, kicked his feet into slippers, and went out into the kitchen where Joe, with a fire going in the wood stove, water boiling merrily in the kettle, was frying bacon.

  Rob poured himself a cup of coffee from the big fire-blackened pot that was over in the back of the stove.