“And those two hours may be up!” he cried. “No one knows how long ago this note was written!”
CHAPTER XIX.
THE RACE IN THE CLOUDS.
The words were scarcely spoken when, from the cliffs above them, came the familiar muffled purr of the gasoline engine.
Instantly a look of hope flashed into Dick’s face as he quickly turned his head upward. Scott Randolph had not yet departed. He might be stopped—must be stopped—and induced to return and release his prisoner. He could not possibly realize what an awful thing he was doing.
The humming increased; there was that same rustling, creaking sound which had attracted their first sight of the aëroplane, and then the great black shape appeared slowly and majestically from among the mountains.
Dick placed his hands trumpetwise to his mouth.
“Randolph!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Come back! You must come back! It is I—Merriwell. You must not leave that man there! Randolph! Randolph!”
His voice rang out clearly on the still night air, and the echoes came back mockingly from the gloomy, towering cliffs. But Scott Randolph paid no heed. The course of the black aëroplane did not waver by so much as a hair’s breadth as it sped on with rapidity increasing momentum, presently vanishing to the northward.
Dick dropped his hands despairingly at his sides.