Into this she swerved, regardless of the fact
that it was half grown up with brush. Thorny branches swept the
sides of the machine; rank, dew-soaked grass rose to the height of
the tonneau. The car came to a jolting pause, then the motor
ceased its purring, and the two women sat motionless, listening
for the rattle of the on-coming machine. It had been a short,
swift, exciting ride. "Young Ed's" runabout could not be many
minutes ahead of them.
Alaire knew the Tad Lewis car, an old-style, cheap affair, which
advertised its mechanical imperfections by a loud clashing of
gears and a noisy complaint of loose parts; therefore, when the
leafy canon walls behind her hiding-place were brilliantly
illuminated and a car stole silently past at low speed, she seized
Paloma by the arm and whispered:
"That's not Lewis."
"Who is it? It can't be Ed."
"No, he and Longorio are ahead of us. It's another motor
entirely."
The women got out, then breasted the high grass and brambles
between their hiding-place and the pump-house road. As soon as
they were back in the trail they made all possible speed,
speculating meanwhile upon the mystery of the unknown car.
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