Without hesitation Martin fired back. The snap of his automatic was instantly followed by a much larger explosion.
‘That’s their back tyre,’ he said. ‘Let’s get behind the car and play soldiers. They’re sure to retaliate. This is going to be fun.’
But in this he was mistaken. Neither Whitby nor his companion seemed inclined for further shooting. The two figures were plainly discernible through the fast-lightening gloom, Whitby in a long dust coat and a soft hat, and the other man taller and thinner, his cap still well down over his face.
And then, while they were still looking at him, Whitby thrust his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a large white handkerchief which he shook at them solemnly, waving it up and down. Its significance was unmistakable.
Abbershaw began to laugh. Even Martin grinned.
‘That’s matey, anyway,’ he said. ‘What happens next?’
CHAPTER XXVIII
Should a Doctor Tell?
Still holding the handkerchief well in front of him, Whitby came a pace or two nearer, and presently his weak, half-apologetic voice came to them down the wind.
‘Since we’ve both got guns, perhaps we’d better talk,’ he shouted thinly. ‘What do you want?’
Martin glanced at Abbershaw.