The cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send the blood whipping through his veins. That voice! It was her—HERS! The Tocsin! There was an automobile, engine racing, standing there in the road. He won to his feet—dark, rushing forms were almost at the wall. He fired—once—twice—fired again—and turned, staggering for the car.
“Jimmie! Jimmie—QUICK!”
Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau. The car leaped forward, yells filled the air—but only one thing was dominant in Jimmie Dale's reeling brain now. He pulled himself up to his feet, and leaned over the back of the seat, reaching for the slim figure that was bent over the wheel.
“It's you—you at last!” he cried. “Your face—let me lee your face!”
A bullet split the back panel of the car—little spurting flames were dancing out from the roadway behind.
“Are you mad!” she shouted back at him. “Let me steer—do you want them to hit me!”
“No-o,” said Jimmie Dale, in a queer singsong sort of way, and his head seemed to spin dizzily around. “No—I guess—” He choked. “The paper—it's in—my pocket”—and he went down unconscious on the floor of the car.
When he recovered his senses he was lying on a couch in a plainly furnished room, and a man, a stranger, red, jovial-faced, farmerish looking, was bending over him.
“Where am I?” he demanded finally, propping himself up on his elbow.
“You're all right,” replied the man. “She said you'd come around in a little while.”