People stared at him in amazement as he flitted past like the wind. They had seen fast riding, but never anything quite like this. Those who obtained a glimpse of his hard-set face and gleaming eyes were certain it was a case of life or death, and that he must be riding thus furiously for a doctor.
Into Belfast sped Merriwell. His one fear was that his enemy, the wretch who had struck Hodge down, would escape. He was determined now. Flynn should be punished as he deserved. Thomaston prison should hold the wretch. It made no difference that it would cost time and trouble to prosecute. Frank thought of Hodge lying in a stupor nearly all the night, of his anguish as he watched beside his faintly breathing friend, of the vows he had repeated, and there was not an atom of mercy in his heart. Indeed, he felt as if he had never known mercy for an enemy.
The bicycle sang its whirring song beneath him, and it seemed to urge him to still greater exertion. His heart swelled with a fierce longing to clutch and hold the wretch he sought. He pictured the satisfaction he would feel as he cornered the scoundrel.
As he approached the Windsor he saw Jack Diamond was there, and that caused his heart to leap, for he felt that Flynn had not escaped. Scarcely slacking the speed of his wheel, he made a flying leap, his feet struck the ground, he ran forward a few steps and stood before the Virginian, panting.
“Where is he?”
“Great Scott!” gasped Diamond. “How did you get here so soon? Didn’t expect you for ten minutes.”
Frank’s hand shot out, his fingers fastened on Jack’s shoulder, and he shook the Southerner, as he almost snarled:
“Where is he?”
“Steady,” cautioned the Virginian, who had been cautioned himself and held in check a hundred times by Frank. “He is right here.”
“Where?”