For more than two miles they had seen neither house nor
barn. Once or twice they came upon little used lanes leading off through
the woods, but none of them showed any traces of the recent passing of
an automobile.
As they came dashing around a curve on a steep down-grade, where hardly
more than the semblance of a road had been cut into the hillside, Jane
caught her breath sharply. Above the roar of their own motor she thought
she heard some other noise, something that sounded like another car
near-by; yet neither behind nor ahead was there another automobile
in sight.
"Listen," she cried sharply.
Dean started to slow down, but it was too late. Out of a cut in the
hillside, half screened by a clump of bushes at the side on which Jane
was riding, a great gray motor shot out just as they were passing. Jane
caught just one glimpse of the man on the driver's seat. It was Frederic
Hoff, frantically twisting at the wheel in an effort to avert the
threatened collision. There came a thud and a crash as the forward part
of the Hoff car struck the motorcycle a glancing blow, overturning it
completely. Too terrified even to shriek, Jane felt herself being
catapulted out of her seat and flung high in air. Then came a blank.
Her companion did not escape so easily.
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