by a desperate wrench of the steering wheel, succeeded in easing it out of its skid.
One such tug - and the tampered steering mechanism would snap.
Bruce had one more detail to take care of any unforeseen hitch to his murderous plans. A light rifle lay on the floor of his own hidden car.
Stationed out of sight behind the sweep of green leaves, he intended to put a bullet into the front tire of his father's automobile and explode it to a flat pancake.
But only in case of emergency. He didn't want any bullet holes showing in the wrecked car. The oil on the road would be an impossible clue for a coroner's jury. Oil might mean carelessness, a leaky truck - almost anything.
The jury would find the smashed bodies of Charles - Bruce intended to throw the
butler's body after the car - and Arnold Dixon and return a verdict of accidental death caused by reckless driving.
Such were the grim thoughts of the youthful killer as he reached into his parked car beyond the first curve and picked up the light rifle he had secreted
there.
Suddenly, a warning thought struck him. He turned, glanced toward the sheltered spot where the unconscious body of Charles had lain. He uttered a frightened oath as be saw that the trampled grass was empty.
Charles was gone! He was not unconscious, as he had pretended to be. The hasty cords that had bound his ankles and wrists were lying under the bush where the butler had been trussed.
HARDLY had the significance of this disaster flashed on the mind of Bruce when a sound from the road itself made him whirl about. It was the noise of an automobile approaching the curve at high speed.
That distant roar was echoed by a shriller sound; the scream of a man desperate with determination. It came from the wide open throat of Charles. He had leaped suddenly into the road, was racing at top speed toward the bend of the curve, waving his arms high above his head. Screaming a warning -
It was remarkable how the old servant could run. Before Bruce had time to squeeze his rifle trigger, Charles had turned the curve and was hidden by the steep shoulder of the slope that formed the outer side of the hairpin.
Bruce raced after him.
A louder sound drowned out the piercing yells of Charles. It was the squeal of tortured brakes. The motor of the approaching car had been cut off.
It was sliding with locked wheels to an abrupt stop on the unseen straight-away
that preceded that first sharp curve of the quarry highway.
Bruce Dixon dropped panting to one knee. His face peered around the boulder that marked the bend in the road. His rifle leaped to his shoulder.
The speeding car had already jerked to a halt. Broad black tire-marks on the pavement behind it testified to the sure power of those brakes. Only the steering gear was damaged, and the straightness of the approach had given no occasion for Arnold Dixon to twist the weakened wheel.
He was already leaping from the stalled automobile, his face set in frightened lines. Charles was still out in front, waving his arms like a madman.
His voice echoed clearly to the hidden murderer.
'For God's' sake, don't get out! He means to kill you! He's got a rifle!
It's your own -'
Bruce's finger tightened on the trigger. He knew what Charles was about to
yell. That yell would end his hope for profit forever. Charles was trying to cry
out: 'It's your own son - Bruce!'
But the final words were never uttered. The rifle cracked with a report that echoed among the circling hills. Charles's waving hands jerked high above his head. They remained stiffly upright for a horrible instant, then the butler
plunged forward on his face in the road.
ARNOLD DIXON was barely a step away when his faithful servant died. He saw
the gaping hole in the back of the prone butler's skull. He stood rooted in horror, his eyes glaring at the turn in the road from whence the murderous bullet had whizzed.
He was an easy target. But the fear of discovery that was in Bruce's heart
saved the old man's life.
Bruce didn't dare run the slightest risk of recognition. He could see Arnold Dixon's eyes staring straight toward him and, with an oath, he sprang back out of sight. He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, knotted it over his nose and the lower part of his face so that only his sullen eyes showed.
Quick as he was, his victim had vanished when again he raised the rifle to
his shoulder.
But a loud report revealed the whereabouts of the resolute Arnold Dixon.
He was crouched behind his car, firing with an automatic pistol.
The sound of the firing was sure to bring help almost immediately. Again, Bruce changed his plan. He swung the muzzle of the rifle sideways and concentrated on a new target. There was an explosive report from the left front
tire of the stalled automobile. The tire blew out with a bang.
Bruce had failed in his primary purpose, but he had preserved his anonymous identity. Charles could never betray him now. Arnold Dixon would have
only a handkerchief-swathed face to recall when he tried to remember details of
that murderous ambush. And it was now impossible for Arnold Dixon to pursue the
death car and try for a glimpse of the license plate.
Bruce fled like a deer. He backed his own car out of concealment far down the road. It began to roar away at top speed.
Arnold Dixon had rounded the bend, was racing on foot past the steep brink
of the quarry. He made no effort to shoot the automatic pistol that wavered excitedly in his upflung hand. He was leaning forward, trying to establish the identity of that fleeing car.
The distance was already too great for any one to read the numbers on the smudged license plate. The car rounded a turn. Another - and another -
Bruce sighed. He slowed to a more sensible pace. The sound of his oath was
unpleasant.
He was now safe. He drove steadily toward the city, as though in a hurry to reach a certain destination. Once he glanced at his watch and his eyes lifted toward the pale sheen of the afternoon sun. He still had ample time before the day would dwindle away into darkness.
CHAPTER XV
MILLION-DOLLAR BAIT
THE lights were on in the home of William Timothy. Outside, a cold gale blew with a mournful sound. It ruffled the parted curtains and roared through the bare branches of the elms outside the house of the lawyer.
He shivered and walked to the window. Outside, the darkness was profound.
With a clipped exclamation, Timothy drew the curtains and faced his visitor.
His visitor was Edith Allen, his niece. She was playing nervously with a tiny lace handkerchief in her hands. The loveliness in her face was deepened, rather than blurred, by the evident terror that filled her.
'What - what are we going to do?' she whispered.
Timothy was silent. He rubbed his chin as if doubtful what to say or do.
'Have the police found any trace of the assassin?' Edith breathed.
'None,' the lawyer replied, dully. 'They combed the roads. The trouble is there is nothing in the way of a clue. All the police have to go on is the dead
body of poor Charles and the confused story of Arnold Dixon.'
Again he hesitated. He seemed to be afraid to ask the next question.
