Dashing forward, Dick tore it open and tripped against the first step of some stairs leading upward. Without a moment’s hesitation, he hurried up them. It was slow work, for the way was pitch dark and he had to trust to his sense of feeling alone. His outstretched hands touched the rough, uneven surface of rock on either side. He seemed to be in a natural tunnel which wound along with many twists and turns, but always steeply upward. It had been fitted with rough wooden stairs, but that was all.
On he went, and on and on. He felt as though he must be almost among the clouds before the cool night wind began to blow upon his face. At last he emerged on a flat, rock-floored surface, walled and roofed with timbers, but open in the front.
The hum of a gasoline engine was in his ears, the whirring purr of an aëroplane propeller; and, as he ran forward to the open front of the shed, he saw the shadowy bulk of the black craft spread out before him on the flat, rocky surface.
Even as it flashed into view, it began to move swiftly down a steep incline.
“Randolph!” the Yale man cried. “Stop!”
But Scott Randolph paid no heed. As Dick sprang out on the rocky platform, the great black aëroplane launched itself from the cliff, and, gathering speed with every moment, it soared upward and northward, vanishing into the night. Presently the muffled throb of the engine died away and all was still.
“He’s gone!” almost sobbed a voice at Merriwell’s elbow. “I’ll never get my hookers on him again.”
It was Bert Holton, weak and exhausted by his hard climb, but rapidly recovering in the cool night air.
“I’m afraid not,” Dick answered slowly. “I don’t think he’ll ever come back here.”
But somehow, deep down in his heart, he was not so sorry.