Matt shifted his eyes to Murgatroyd. The latter was coolly getting out of the car. Reaching back, as soon as his feet had touched ground, he pulled a rifle from one of the seats, turned and walked a little way toward Matt, halted and leaned on the gun. He did not speak, but his dark, piercing eyes roved over Matt and then leaped on beyond, to where the aëroplane was lying.
Matt withdrew his gaze to give it to Murgatroyd's fair companion.
"Are you hurt?" cried the girl, as Motor Matt lifted himself and looked toward her.
"What is it to you, or that scoundrel with you, whether I am hurt or not?" he answered angrily.
A hurt look crossed the girl's face. She had been hurrying toward Matt, but she now paused and drew back.
"Your business is with me, Motor Matt, and not with my niece," snapped Murgatroyd sharply. "She doesn't know anything about our affairs, and is undoubtedly feeling hard toward me because I fired that shot and brought you down."
"Why did you do that, Uncle Amos?" demanded the girl shrilly. "You might have killed him!"
"No danger of that, Amy," was the cool answer. "I shouldn't have tried to bring him down if he had been high enough in the air for the fall to hurt him."
"Why did you try to bring him down, anyhow?"
The girl's alarm was merging rapidly into indignation and protest.