“Make it quick, please!” I urged the young valet.

He brought the car around as fast as he could, and George, Bess, Zeke, Diana, and I all squeezed in, Bess taking the opportunity to scooch close to Zeke. I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and sped down the gravel driveway as fast as my little car could go, which wasn’t as fast as I would have liked.

Before we came to the gate, I spotted a patch of disturbed gravel up ahead. Skid marks veered off to the left, into the trees.

“Looks like Sven didn’t get far after all,” I murmured.

I turned off my headlights and pulled slowly off the driveway and into the woods. My passengers were as quiet as mice, watching intently for any sign of the fugitive.

We followed the tracks to the edge of a small clearing, where I saw a figure hunched over the smoking wreck of the art cycle. My hybrid’s electric motor was perfectly silent as we snuck up on the scene. The figure’s back was turned to us, but it had to be Sven. Nobody else would wear a skintight leotard like that. Sven’s shoulders shook. Was he crying?

“Wait here,” I said to my friends. “And if I say run, start the engine!”

“I’m coming with you,” said George.

“Me too,” said Bess. “I don’t want to miss anything good.”

“So are we,” said Diana. “Duh.”

“All right,” I said reluctantly, “but stay quiet and follow my lead.”

I flicked the headlights on, illuminating the clearing, then got out of the car. Sven spun around, and I saw that he wasn’t crying—he had been struggling to lift the heavy statue from the art cycle’s wreckage. Having successfully extracted it, he held Diana out in front of him, skinny arms trembling.

“Come any closer and the goddess gets it!” Sven yelled.

He thrust the statue away from his body, and I saw that he was holding it out over the sharp crags of a large boulder. If he dropped the statue now, it would shatter into a million pieces.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Artist Revealed

“DON’T DO IT, SVEN!” BESS cried.

“Come on, man,” Zeke chimed in. “That’s my sister’s work. She made it when she was just a teenager. You’ve made your point. Now give it back.”

Sven ignored them both and let the statue slip through his hands, catching it by the waist again just before it hit the boulder.

Diana let out a tiny scream. “Please be careful!” she begged.

“My hands are getting sweaty,” Sven said, grinning evilly. I knew there was only one way to distract the artist long enough to rescue the statue. I’d have to ask him about his art.

“What was your point, Sven? What are you trying to say?” I asked in a curious, polite voice.

He looked at me for a long moment, his brow furrowed. “I am trying to tell the truth, Nancy Drew,” he finally said. “Obviously.”