A mile or two further on there was a
rather broken stretch of road and she was forced to slow down. As the
sound of her own vehicle diminished, she, as before, caught the
volleying of the motor cycle; and as she turned the eyes that looked
through the veil were intent and searching.
This time she appeared not so well satisfied, for upon reaching the
end of the broken stretch, she drew her car to one side and stopped.
As the hammering explosions of the motor cycle grew plainer and
plainer she sat rigidly erect upon her seat, her face turned directly
ahead. But a close observer would have noted a slow movement of her
right hand among the folds of the dust coat; and if he was also an
experienced observer he would have immediately understood that Miss
Vale did not venture alone and unarmed upon the road.
However, the Italian never even gave her a glance as he came up; his
machine flew by with a swirl, amid a crashing crescendo; then it
disappeared in the dust of the distance.
But Miss Vale, when she once more resumed her journey, had not gone
much more than a mile when she came upon the same swarthy son of the
south and his vociferous machine. But the latter was now silent
enough; it leaned against a fence, and its rider knelt beside it, a
wrench in his hand, testing its parts carefully and intently.
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