“All ready!” he said nudging Yeader. “See, we’re rising. We’re going across a bridge. Listen! That’s the New York Central Railroad below us. This is where Stephney was thrown on the freight-train. Now—look out!”
The taxi dropped down a long, sharp incline with its brakes grinding. It rounded a lodge-gate, swung by a dark, stone house and came to a sudden halt in a sheltered courtyard.
The driver sprang out. Fay braced his feet against the door. He heard two voices in whispered conversation. A third joined in with a protesting snarl. The handle of the door clicked. A key was inserted. The lock snapped open.
Fay bent his knees, aimed at the exact center of the panel and kicked outward. He rolled over with the force of his blow. He staggered from the cab with Yeader and Rake scrambling after him.
“Get up your hands!” he exclaimed, jabbing forward the automatic. “Up! Up! Up! All three of you!”
Rake lunged swiftly and wrapped his arms about the forward figure of a startled group. He went down with the man under him.
The two figures in front of Fay’s automatic hesitated, spread, and bolted to right and left. Fay lowered his gun, fired once at the ground, then dashed in pursuit of the taxi-driver, whose khaki leggings were a fair mark to follow.
He gained with each stride. He reached forward, stumbled over a low wall, and clutched a coat which was torn from his fingers. He bounded across a roadway, dropped the automatic and made a flying tackle which brought his quarry to the close-cropped grass.
“Lie still, you!” he ordered as his fingers closed on a pair of flailing arms. “Get down! I think I know you!”