"How in blazes they found out beats me," he gasped.
A sickening fear assailed him that his second line of escape might also have been blocked and, at the thought, he put out every ounce of speed he possessed. It was better to know the worst at once. The path widened out into a cart track and through an aisle of trees the white patch of the high road came into view.
A casual passer-by would never have noticed the low built pigsty that butted on to the hedge, its roof and sides being almost completely masked with brushwood and bramble vine.
Barraclough could not resist an exclamation of joy as he noted that the big piles of carelessly thrown kindlings were apparently untouched. He kicked away great bundles of them with his foot, produced a key and opened a small solid door. The relief was almost unbearable, but he did not linger to offer up prayers of thanksgiving.
The motor bicycle flashed bravely as he dragged it out into the sun, turned on the petrol and set the controls. He shoved the gear lever into second, lifted the exhaust and pushed, and the willing little twin fired its first spluttering salvo as he bumped out of the rutted lane into the main road.
Concentration on the single object of getting away had dulled his ears to other sounds, for normally he could not have failed to hear the chuff-chuff of the approaching Ford. As he swung into the saddle he saw it out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The vision of two men—an excited yell and an oath—they were almost on top of him when the twin took a healthy dose of the mixture and got away. Another second and they would have ridden him down. Barraclough swerved to the left to cut a corner and opened up. Harrison Smith did likewise, choking his engine with too wide a throttle and losing a dozen yards in half that number of seconds.
"Shoot, blast you! Shoot, you blasted fool!" he roared at Dirk.
Barraclough heard the order and swept over to the right to disturb the aim as a couple of leaden hornets buzzed angrily past his ear striking the macadam a hundred yards ahead and whining away into the distance.
Freddie Dirk's execution with an automatic was below the quality of his Mascot work. He cursed fluently as the shots flew wide and tried to steady his aim by resting the Colt on the iron crosspiece of the wind screen.
"Take the wheel—take the wheel, damn you," cried Harrison Smith, snatching at the pistol with his left hand. "You can't shoot that way."