A smile, inscrutable in the dark, crossed his face, twisted his lips. He turned into the hangar.
Down the wood’s path raced Dick, Larry slightly ahead of him, the detective, older and not so quick, bringing up the rear.
“Scatter!” cried he. “She has turned off!”
“Here she is—” Sandy shouted, but a crash indicated that he had stumbled or missed his footing on slippery sod or pebbles.
The chase turned toward him.
Recovered, he dashed in pursuit of the woman.
Their quarry was fleet, clever and terrorized: she led them always toward the water, down hill.
Sandy, having hurt his foot somewhat in his stumble, was quickly out of the race.
He decided to go back and see if the hangar, with its door wide, was still deserted. Sandy had a misgiving that the woman might be a decoy and that the hangar ought to be watched.
As Dick passed at a slight distance, Sandy told his idea.