"You sneak!" he cried. "What are you doing here -- spying on us?"

He sprang forward, and Graves, with a snarling cry of anger,
lunged to meet him. Had he not been handicapped by his lame
ankle, Harry might have given a good account of himself in a hand-
to-hand fight with Graves, but, as it was, the older boy's
superior weight gave him almost his own way. Before Jack, who was
running up, could reach them, Graves threw Harry off. He stood
looking down on him for just a second.

"That's what you get for interfering, young Fleming!" he said.
"There's something precious queer about you, my American friend.
I fancy you'll have to do some explaining about where you've been
tonight." Harry was struggling to his feet. Now he saw the
papers in Graves' hand. "You thief!" he cried. "Those papers
belong to me! You've stolen them! Give them here!" But Graves
only laughed in his face.

"Come and get them!" he taunted. And, before either of the scouts
could realize what he meant to do he had started one of the
motorcycles, sprung to the saddle, and started. In a moment he
was out of sight, around a bend in the road. Only the put-put of
the motor, rapidly dying away, remained of him. But, even in that
moment, the two he left behind him were busy. Jack sprang to the
other motorcycle, and tried to start it, but in vain. Something
was wrong; the motor refused to start.

"That's what he was doing when I saw him first," cried Harry, with
a flash of inspiration. "I thought it was Dick, trying to start
his motor -- it was Graves trying to keep us from starting it!