He aimed carefully and fired.
I had been out for a tramp over the hills with no destination in particular. As I swung along the road, I heard the throbbing of a car coming up the hill, the cut-out open. I turned, for cars make walking on country roads somewhat hazardous nowadays.
As I did so, some one in the car waved to me. I looked again. It was
Elaine.
"Where are you going?" she called.
"Where are YOU going?" I returned, laughing.
"I've just had a very queer experience—found something down on the rocks," she replied seriously, pointing to the square package on the floor of the car. "I took it to Lieutenant Woodward and he advised me to take it to Professor Arnold on his yacht. I think it is a bomb. I wish you'd go with me."
Before I could answer, up the hill a rifle shot cracked. There was a whirr in the air and a bullet sang past us, cutting the red feather off Elaine's hat.
"Duck!" I cried, jumping into the car, "And drive like the dickens!"
She turned and we fairly ricocheted down that road back again.
Behind us, a man, a stranger whom we did not pause to observe, rushed from the bushes and fired after us again.