“You must remember that the banks and hedge hid the place from the road,” Peggy reminded him. “Even Fanning Harding wouldn’t have willfully passed by you when you were in such straits.”
“I don’t think so, either,” agreed Roy, “and come to think of it, bending over his handlebars as he is, he would not be likely to have noticed the gap we ploughed through.”
“Look,” cried Peggy suddenly, “he’s stopping.”
The girl was right. The motor-cycling boy, whose pace had hitherto been as fast as that of the aeroplane, could now be seen to slacken his machine and finally stop it. Leaning it against a fence he clambered into an adjoining field, and with every evidence of extreme caution he crept toward a patch of woods at no great distance.
“What can he be doing?” exclaimed Peggy.
As she spoke they saw the boy below them take something from his hip pocket.
“A pistol!” cried Roy.
The next instant Fanning Harding had vanished into the patch of woods without having noticed the aerial observers, or, at least, so it appeared.
CHAPTER VI.