Presently he turned onto a narrower road which led over the hills into the more unsettled country. He knew they would follow him, and he meant to give them a long chase.
The road wound up hill and down dale, through farming country and wheat fields, with now and then a stretch of woods or meadow land. Once he flashed past a farmhouse where a woman stood drawing water from an old well, and as she caught a fleeting glimpse of his face, she gave a cry of horror and gazed after the thick cloud of dust, her hand lifted to her heart. The brand of fear was very plain.
On went the car like a flying monster. The man was pushing her to the utmost, and she responded nobly. They were nearing the river which he meant to cross by an old, unfrequented bridge close beside a deserted mill. He would fool them all, for few knew of the crossing which cut off several miles on the way to the wilder country beyond. He had not been that way himself in many months, but he knew it perfectly.
Up a steep hill he flew on the high, flashed over the level summit, and began the rough, winding descent. He was driving recklessly, but with splendid skill. A little grove of trees blurred past, and then he reached the river bank.
Too late he saw that he had blundered.
The bridge was gone!
Following a grinding shock of the emergency, the car shot through the frail protecting timbers at the brink, and, for one brief, awful instant, seemed to hover in the air above the river.
With a tremendous splash, it struck the water and sank beneath.
By some strange freak of chance, Stovebridge had been flung free of the entangling car, and presently, dazed by the shock, he struggled to the surface and strove to reach the shore.
But the current was very swift, and something seemed to drag him down. Still he struggled frantically. He must reach it. He did not want to drown. He was afraid to die, as he had been afraid of many things in life.