Suddenly another rifle shot cracked. It was from another car that had stealthily sneaked up on us—coming fast, recklessly.
"There's her car," pointed one of the occupants to a man who was masked in black.
"Yes," he nodded. "Give her a little more gas!"'
"Crouch down," I muttered, "as low as you can."
We did so, racing for life, the more powerful motor behind us overhauling us every instant.
We were coming to a very narrow part of the road where it turned, on one side a sheer hill, on the other a stream several feet down.
If we had an accident, I thought, it might be ticklish for us, supposing the square package really to be a bomb. What if it should go off? The idea suggested another, instantly. The car behind was only a few feet off.
As we reached the narrow road by the stream, I rose up. As far as I could, back of me, I hurled the infernal machine. It fell. We received a shower of dirt and small stones, but the cover of the car protected us. Where the bomb landed, however, it cut a deep hole in the roadway.
On came Del Mar's car, the driver frantically tugging at the emergency brake. But it was of no use. There was not room to turn aside. The car crashed into the hole, like a gigantic plow.
It took one header over the side of the road and down several feet into the stream, just as the masked man and the driver jumped far ahead into the water.