“Castleman’s car!” Blount said softly after it had passed. “I saw him. They missed us by an inch!”
“What do you think of that!” exclaimed Gregory cynically. “I wonder if they’ll come back to see the result of their work?”
Even as they were talking, however, they heard the big car returning.
“Say, this looks serious! I don’t like the looks of it!” whispered Blount. “That car would have torn us to bits and never been scratched. And here they are now. Better look out for them. It’s just as well that we’re armed. You have your gun, haven’t you?”
The other group approached most brazenly.
“Hello! Any trouble?” they called from a distance. “So sorry,” and then as though they had just discovered it, “—well, if it isn’t Gregory and Blount! Well, well, fellows, so sorry! It was an accident, I assure you. Our steering gear is out of order.”
Gregory and Blount had previously agreed to stand their ground, and if any further treachery were intended it was to be frustrated with bullets. The situation was partially saved or cleared up by the arrival of a third car containing a party of four middle-aged men who, seeing them in the wood and the other car standing by, stopped to investigate. It was Gregory’s presence of mind which kept them there.
“Do you mind staying by, Mister, until that other car leaves?” he whispered to one of the newcomers who was helping to extricate Blount’s machine. “I think they purposely tried to wreck us, but I’m not sure; anyway, we don’t want to be left alone with them.”
Finding themselves thus replaced and the others determined to stay, Castleman and his followers were most apologetic and helpful. They had forgotten something back at the inn, they explained, and were returning for it. As they had reached this particular spot and had seen the lights of Blount’s car, they had tried to stop, but something had gone wrong with the steering gear. They had tried to turn, but couldn’t, and had almost wrecked their own car. Was there any damage? They would gladly pay. Blount assured them there was not, the while he and Gregory accepted their apologies in seeming good part, insisting, however, that they needed no help. After they had gone Blount and Gregory, with the strangers as guards, made their way to the hotel, only to find it dark and deserted.
What an amazing thing it all was, Gregory said to himself over and over, the great metropolis threaded with plots like this for spoil—cold blooded murder attempted, and that by a young girl and these young men scarcely in their middle twenties, and yet there was no way to fix it on them. Here he was, fairly convinced that on two occasions murder had been planned or attempted, and still he could prove nothing, not a word, did not even dare to accuse any one! And Imogene, this girl of beauty and gayety, pretending an affection for him—and he half believing it—and at the same time convinced that she was in on the plot in some way. Had he lost his senses?