The automobile was halfway down the hill before the sentries sighted it. They had been listening for the sound of the engine. By shutting it off, Nick Carter had fooled them completely.
Suddenly a hoarse shout broke from the lips of one of the two soldiers. He wheeled around and darted down the slope toward the pass, bellowing: “The car! Here it is! Prince Marcos is here!”
He called over his shoulder to his comrade to shoot, and kept on his own way to warn the others hiding in the narrow pass.
The second sentry did his best to carry out his comrade’s advice, and brought his carbine to his shoulder.
But he could not take steady aim at a car that was moving toward him at the rate of nearly seventy miles an hour. He might as well have leveled his gun at a flash of lightning.
The soldier did his best, however. He pointed his gun in a general way at Nick Carter’s head and pulled the trigger.
There was a crack, hardly heard through the shouts and the rushing of the car, and the bullet went six feet too high, at least.
Then Phillips came to the front. He brought out a revolver, and, as the car came level with the soldier who had just fired, the valet sent a bullet into his chest.
There was a shriek, followed by a gurgling groan, from the trooper, and down he went in a huddled heap. The car surged past, and those in it hardly had time to see what became of the man.
“Bully for you, Phillips!” shouted Patsy. “You plugged him good! Wow! You’re all right, old socks!”