The car swerved suddenly to one side, there was a grinding jar of the emergency and the white, stricken face vanished. With a sickening jolt, the roadster rolled on a short distance and stopped.
For a second or two Stovebridge sat absolutely still, his hands trembling, his face the color of chalk. Then he turned, as though with a great effort, and looked back.
The child lay silent, a crumpled, dust-covered heap. The white face was stained with blood, one tiny hand still clutched a bunch of wild flowers.
The man in the car gave a shuddering groan.
“I’ve killed her!” he gasped. “My God, I’ve killed her!”
He would be arrested—convicted—imprisoned. At the thought every bit of manhood left him and fear struck him to the soul. He knew that every law, human or divine, bound him to pick up the child and hurry her to a doctor, for there might still be a spark of life which could be fanned into flame. But he was lost to all sense of humanity, decency, or honor. Maddened by the fear of consequences, his one impulse was to fly—fly quickly before he was discovered.
In a panic he threw off the brakes, started the car and ran through his gears into direct drive with frantic haste. The car leaped forward, and, without a backward glance at the victim of his carelessness, Stovebridge opened her up wide and disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
The child lay still where she had fallen. Slowly the dust settled and a gentle breeze stirred the flaxen hair above her blood-stained face.
Then came the throbbing of another motor approaching, a deep-toned horn sounded, and a big, red touring car, containing four young fellows, rounded the bend at a fair speed.
Dick Merriwell, the famous Yale athlete, was at the wheel, and, catching sight of the little heap in the roadway, he stopped the car with a jerk and sprang out.