“It might be,” Rodgers’ tone was grave. “But so far we do not even know that Leigh was at your house on Sunday afternoon. Don’t brood over the tragedy, Kitty: forget it, for to-night, at least. Here’s a clear stretch of road ahead—step on the gas.”
Instinctively, Kitty followed his suggestion and the car shot ahead. The wind fanned their cheeks through the opened windshield, and Kitty was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration as they tore onward, gathering speed with each throb of the powerful engine. In the distance Kitty descried a car approaching and dimmed her headlights. The courtesy was not returned; instead a spotlight swung directly on them and Kitty, blinded by the glare, swerved to the right as the oncoming car swept up. She heard a deafening report, something swished by her, and the car raced up the road they had just traversed.
Checking the speed of her own car, Kitty swung it back into the center of the road and turned, white-lipped, to Rodgers.
“How dare they drive like that!” she gasped. “They must be drunk or cra—” Her voice failed her at sight of Rodgers sitting huddled back in the car—there was something unnatural in his pose which chilled the blood in her veins. “Ted!”
Her call met with no response.
Slowly she put out her hand and touched his shoulder; then her hand crept upward to his face and forehead. What she touched felt moist and sticky. She jerked her hand downward so that the light from the dash-lamp fell upon it. It was covered with blood.
There was a sound of a thousand Niagaras roaring in her ears as she brought the roadster to a standstill and turned to Rodgers. Bending down she pressed her ear over his heart—its feeble beat reassured her—he was still alive.
Kitty searched frantically for her handkerchief and for his. Tying them together she bound his wound as best she could; then with compressed lips and in breathless haste she started the car headlong for Washington. As they tore madly down the road, one question only throbbed through her aching head:
Who had shot her lover?