Dorothy threw the middle light into the ditch and found satisfaction in hearing the crash of glass. Then she came back to her car, got inside, slammed the door and put her foot down on the starter. The motor whined but the engine did not move. The car was hot and never before had it failed. Again she tried, but without success.
“This looks suspicious,” she muttered to herself.
She sprang out into the rain again and walked to the back to examine her gasoline tank. There was no need, for the indicator said, “Empty.”
“I’ll say suspicious!” she muttered again, angrily, as she stared down at the cause of her plight.
She had filled up just before dinner, but notwithstanding that fact, here was a trustworthy indicator pointing grimly to “E”; and when she tapped the tank, it gave forth a hollow sound in confirmation.
Dorothy sniffed: the air reeked with fumes. Flashing her pocket light on the ground she saw a metal cap and picked it up. Then she understood what had happened. The roadway, under her light, gleamed with opalescent streaks. Someone had taken out the cap and emptied her tank while she was examining the red lamps!
She refastened the cap, which was airproof, waterproof, and foolproof, and which could only have been turned by the aid of a spanner—she had heard no chink of metal against metal. She did not carry reserve fuel, but home was not more than a mile down the road, round the turn. And she knew there was a path from the gap in the stone wall, across the field and through a belt of woods that would halve the distance.
She sent her flashlight in the direction of the open gateway. One of the posts was broken and the rotting structure leaned drunkenly against a lilac bush. In the shadow behind the bush, she was certain that a dark form moved.
Dorothy lingered no longer, but switching off her light, she turned on her heel and raced up the road.