“Missed him, didn’t you?” he cried. “A motor boat went up past here not half an hour ago—going lickety-split, water flyin’ clear over her. Only one man in her. Your man wouldn’t go back to Rainbow Landing, would he?”
“I never thought of it!” exclaimed Power, looking startled. “Jackson’s there, alone with sister and dad.”
“Hanna’s hunted and desperate. He’d do anything now for money—or revenge,” said Lockwood.
Tom jumped out of the boat.
“Where’s that car we left here?”
The car had been run under a shed. Its gasoline tank had to be replenished, its radiator filled. It was ten minutes before they were headed up the road again, leaving the wounded Fenway boy at the mill. But now they had a speed machine that no boat could match.
If Tom had driven recklessly on the way down, he drove murderously now. A negro with a mule got out of the way just in time, and stood trembling and swearing. A dozen times the car seemed about to turn turtle, but it was heavy, and heavily loaded, and rebalanced itself.
They reached the main road that led to the landing, and swept into it with a skidding swerve. A light car was jogging on ahead. They passed it like a flash, Ferrell leaning out, shouting and gesticulating for it to follow. The two men in it did speed up in pursuit, but they were hopelessly outdistanced.
The Power house came in sight, peaceful among its great trees in the blaze of sunshine. The yard was empty, no one in sight. Tom swept in the open gate and up to the house. Jerking open the doors they scrambled out of the car, and Lockwood was immediately aware of a thundering from the upper part of the house like some one beating on a closed door, and then an unmistakable scream.
With a rush they went over the gallery, into the hall, up the stairs. A shot crashed. Lockwood saw Louise at the door of a room; she had a revolver half raised in her hand, and he caught a glimpse of a man bolting toward the rear of the hall.