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.
"You think that Bruce is mixed up in some way with this ghastly plot against his father's life?"
Edith wrung her slim hands, cried, "Bruce isn't a killer! He can't be -
he
can't!"
"Suppose he is. What then?"
"That's why I'm here," Edith replied, drearily. "I've got to know! This doubt, this suspicion is slowly killing me. I have a horrible feeling that the whole thing is coming to a climax tonight! Unless you and I do something to save him, Arnold Dixon will be killed! That's why I drove here at top speed after - after Bruce acted so queerly!"
SHE amplified her statement, while her uncle stared at her attentively.
Bruce had visited her late that afternoon, just before dusk. His manner was strained. He acted as though he regretted having an appointment to take Edith to dinner, although he himself had suggested it. He explained that it was again
necessary for him to break his date.
He made a glib excuse that was completely unconvincing. But the girl accepted it, as she had accepted similar excuses in the past fortnight.
This time, however, she determined to test Bruce's truthfulness. She followed him to the street. He had told her his business was taking him immediately downtown. It was a lie. He got into his car and drove rapidly away uptown!
Edith signaled a taxicab and followed. The chase continued steadily north through the Bronx. It was in the Bronx that Bruce became aware that he was being trailed. His car ducked in and out of streets, finally shook off the pursuing taxicab.
"And you think -" Timothy prompted Edith, slowly.
"I don't think, uncle. I know! He was taking a route that would bring him to only one spot - the home of his father in Pelham!"
"Nothing very strange about that," the lawyer said.
"But there is! I called Arnold Dixon, asked to speak with Bruce. His father said that Bruce wouldn't be home tonight, that he was spending the night
in New York. I asked him if there were police on hand to guard the mansion in the event of - another attempt against him. He laughed - you know how stubborn he is - and said no. He said that a loaded gun would be his best protection."
Timothy's jaw set in a sudden hard line. He slipped into his overcoat, donned his hat.
"You wait here," he told Edith. "I'll go over to Shadelawn and see if I can persuade Arnold Dixon to hire guards."
"I'm going with you," Edith asserted.
"Don't be silly!" he snapped. "To-night may turn out to be very dangerous."
Her answer was to walk stubbornly with him toward the doorway.
Timothy hesitated a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Very well," he said, a touch of fatalism in his voice. "I've warned you of the peril we may run into. I wash my hands of any consequences!"
THE lawyer's car swung into the road. It made the short run to Dixon's mansion in a few minutes. All the lights on the ground door were extinguished, but there was a light in an upper bedroom - Arnold Dixon's room.
Timothy was about to ring the bell when a cold hand on his wrist restrained him. Edith had backed a few paces from him. She was staring around the silent corner of the house. Her expression was one of amazement and fear.