Summoning all his resolution, he slipped through the window and hung by both hands. As the key clicked in the lock, he dropped to the ground, staggered, regained his footing with an effort, and then ran across the drive toward the automobile sheds.
He did not see Dick Merriwell’s head appear at the window and then quickly disappear. He did not know that he was flying from his own salvation. His one desperate thought was to get away.
He reached his car and, cranking the engine with feverish haste, sprang into the seat and swiftly backed her out. With a sharp turn, he went through the gears with a rush and started the car out of the club grounds at top speed.
As he dashed by the end of the veranda a yell arose:
“Stop him! Stop him!”
Several men ran out, waving their arms, but it was of no avail. He disappeared down the drive like a streak of light.
Merriwell, Niles and several others ran back for their cars to give chase; and as the fellow with the homely face and honest eyes bent to crank his engine, he shook his head seriously.
“He’s crazy,” he muttered to himself—“clean daffy. If something don’t happen pretty quick, I miss my guess.”
It was a long, long time before the jolly, happy-go-lucky Niles could thrust out of his mind the picture of that face—set, strained, and ghastly white, the eyes wide open and glittering with a strange light, the colorless lips parted over the clenched teeth. It was a face which bore the brand of fear; the face of one going to destruction.
Stovebridge whirled out of the club gates into the highroad, skidding, barely missing the ditch; but he did not pull down the speed a hair. Down the road he went, a blurred streak of red. He must get away. He would not be caught.