In her tree Doris trembled. She was well screened by the branches and she heard the crackle of footsteps in the dry leaves as the searchers beat the bushes below her, but they passed on, following the path toward the house. As the sounds diminished in the distance she saw Cyril still seated on the ground leaning against the front wheels of the touring-car while he argued and cajoled the men nearest him. Helping himself by a wheel as he arose he faced the tall man who had come up waving his revolver and uttering wild threats.
“It won’t help matters calling me a lot of names,” said Cyril, brushing the dust from his clothes. “You want something I haven’t got—that’s flat. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Not yet. They’ll bring the girl in a minute. She can’t have gone far.”
Cyril glanced around him carelessly and brushed his clothes again.
He had discovered that Stryker had put on the spare wheel and was parleying with one of their captors.
“Oh, very well. Have your way. What more can I do for you? If you don’t mind I’d like to be going on.”
“You’ll wait for the girl—here.”
Doris watched Stryker skulking along in the shadow of the limousine. She saw him reach his seat, heard a grinding of the clutches and a confused scuffle out of which, [his blond hair disheveled, his shoulders coatless, Cyril emerged] and leaped for the running-board of the moving machine.
“You forgot to search the limousine,” she heard him shout.
The tall man scrambled to his knees and fired at the retreating machine while the others jumped for the touring-car.