It was then that a shot suddenly echoed through the night, and the old car skidded across the road to a forced stop against an embankment. Toffee looked back at the approaching lights.
"Come on!" she cried. "Run!"
They scrambled out of the car and started up the embankment. They were just about to the top when they were suddenly caught in the blinding glare of a spotlight. They stopped where they were. On the road there was a squeal of brakes and the slam of a door. Cecil Blemish, his gun in his hand, stepped into the light.
"Fun's over," he said. "Let's go home."
Toffee and Marc reentered the house with an air of morose finality. As they automatically took their places in the chairs and allowed themselves to be imprisoned again, Gerald appeared smirkingly from the tangled underpinnings of the small catapult. He regarded them with an air of almost personal triumph.
"Glad you got back for the launching," he said. "You're just in time."
Marc glanced fearfully toward the catapult.
"Listen," he said earnestly. "You don't realize what you're doing. The disappearance of that monument could easily start another war. Such small things can sometimes."
The brothers stared at him with rapt attention. For a moment Marc thought he had actually begun to impress them. Then Gerald turned to Cecil.