Bending forward so as to offer the least resistance to the wind, the
Italian's swarthy face relaxed at this; his fine white teeth showed in
a smile.
"Cordova, I think," muttered he, in very good English. "If not, then
somewhere very near to it."
Once upon the highway, which was hard, level and practically deserted,
the Maillard increased its speed. Eddies of dust curled in its wake;
its hum resembled that of a gigantic top; its shining brass and smooth
gloss made it look like a streak of light. But the motor cycle was of
the best; its compact, powerful mechanism answered bravely to each
call that was made upon it by the dark-faced man in the saddle; its
explosions had merged into one long volley.
At a small and not very firm-looking bridge the Maillard slowed down;
apparently for the first time Miss Vale heard the cycle in the rear,
for she turned and gave it a quick look. But the dust of her own
progress hung thickly in the air and she could not see very clearly.
Passing the bridge at a low rate of speed, she turned again. The dark
face of the rider, his battered hat and flying 'kerchief seemed to
satisfy her; for once more she gave attention to her course, and again
the car increased its speed.
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