“One of the cylinder’s missing, sir.” Ross turned to the detective, and spoke with eager anxiety.
“We’ll make it on five.” The quiet confidence in Blaine’s voice, with its underlying note of grim, indomitable determination, seemed to communicate itself to the other men, and no further word was said, although they all heard the thunder of the approaching car behind.
The Doctor restrained with difficulty the impulse to look backward, and instead kept his eyes sternly fixed upon the trees and hedge-rows flying past, more sharply defined shadows in the lesser dark.
Then, all at once, the shriek of a locomotive burst upon his ears, and the roar and rattle of a train going over a trestle.
“The railroad bridge!” he cried, excitedly. “We’re there, Mr. Blaine!”
The noise of the passing train had scarcely died away, when from just behind them the hideous shriek of Mac Alarney’s motor-horn rose blastingly three times upon the night air, the last fainter than the others, as if the pursuing car had dropped back.
“He’s beaten! He couldn’t keep up the pace, much less better it,” Blaine remarked. “Those three blasts sounded a warning to the guards of the retreat. It was probably a signal agreed upon in case of danger. We’re in for it now!”
They swerved abruptly, between two high stone gateposts, and up a broad sweep of graveled driveway. Lights gleamed suddenly in the windows of the hitherto darkened house, which loomed up gaunt and squarely defined against the sullen sky.
“Your men, in the other cars––” Doctor Alwyn stammered, as they came to a crunching stop before the door. “Will they arrive in time to be of service? Mac Alarney will reach here first––”