“You start that machine of yours slowly, and turn it into the shrubbery at that side of the road.”
“How am I going to start it with me hands in the air,” snarled Grady, who had really seen Nick’s desire to delay matters.
The voice of the highwayman again took on that vicious ring which had warned Nick not to oppose him then and there.
“Don’t you speak again, Grady, or this gun will drown the sound of your voice,” he cried quickly. “You start that machine and turn it into the shrubbery—and don’t forget, either of you, that I shall keep you constantly covered. Start her up, Grady, and turn sharp out of the road!”
With the ugliest kind of a scowl, Grady gripped the steering-bar and slowly started the runabout, turning toward the shrubbery that lined the road in that locality.
Just as the Irishman did so, however, there suddenly sounded from up the road the warning toot of an automobile-horn.
“Steady!—not a move!” yelled the robber warningly. “If you drop your hands, mister, I’ll fire!”
Nick could not then see the scoundrel, for he had darted back of the runabout when Grady turned it from the road.
Glancing quickly in the direction from which the horn had sounded, however, Nick now beheld a large touring-car come sweeping around a sharp curve of the road, some thirty yards away.
It was driven by a man with a beard, who was the one occupant of the car, and whose eyes and features were almost entirely masked with a pair of huge dust-glasses.