But even as they stopped, the other car came to an abrupt halt too, a few yards ahead of them, the brakes screeching shrilly in the night.
With the full glare of the other car’s headlights in their eyes, the girls could just make out the two figures which descended from the machine.
“Can you tell us, please,” called Marjorie, “whether this road will take us to the Lincoln Highway?”
The answer, when it came, was like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky.
“Hands up!” ordered a rough voice; and two men approached.
The girls were thrown immediately into helpless, speechless panic. So great was their consternation that they even failed to do as the man commanded. “Hold up yer hands, I say!” he roared, advancing to the side of the car, threatening them with a revolver.
Obediently, seven pairs of hands were elevated.
“Ye Gods! Bill,” called the ruffian to his companion. “’tain’t nothin’ but a carload of girls!”
“Easy pickins, I’ll say!” remarked the other.
The men now stood revealed in the gleam of their own headlights. They were clad in soiled overalls and jumpers, and looked like ordinary mechanics except for the masks which covered their faces completely—rudely improvised masks consisting of nothing more than pocket handkerchiefs with eyeholes cut in them. But they looked weird enough, and it was no wonder the girls were frightened.