DANGEROUS SECRETS
want something I haven’t got—that’s flat. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Not yet. They’ll bring the girl in a minute. She can’t have gone far.”
Cyril glanced around him carelessly and brushed his clothes again.
He had discovered that Stryker had put on the spare wheel and was parleying with one of their captors.
“Oh, very well. Have your way. What more can I do for you? If you don’t mind I’d like to be going on.”
“You’ll wait for the girl—here.”
Doris watched Stryker skulking along in the shadow of the limousine. She saw him reach his seat, heard a grinding of the clutches and a confused scuffle out of which, his blond hair disheveled, his shoulders coatless, Cyril emerged and leaped for the running-board of the moving machine.
“You forgot to search the limousine,” she heard him shout.
The tall man scrambled to his knees and fired at the retreating machine while the others jumped for the touring-car.
It had no sooner begun to move than there was a sound of escaping air and an oath from the chauffeur.
“A puncture,” someone said. And Doris heard a volley of curses which spoke eloquently of the sharpness of Cyril’s pocket-knife.
Doris in her hiding-place breathed a sigh of relief. Cyril had gotten safely off, and his last words had created a diversion in the camp of the enemy. They were working furiously at the tire, but she knew that the chance of coming up with Cyril again that night was
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