was her
chance--her one chance. Danglar was perhaps a little more than a hundred
yards in the rear. Yes--now! His headlights were streaming out on her
left as he, too, touched the curve. The right-hand side of her car, the
right-hand side of the road were in blackness. She checked violently,
almost to a stop, then instantly opened the throttle wide once more,
wrenching the wheel over to head the machine for the ravine; and before
the car picked up its momentum again, she dropped from the right-hand
side, darted to the far edge of the road, and flung herself flat down
upon the ground.

The great, black body of her car seemed to sail out into nothingness
like some weird aerial monster, the headlights streaming uncannily
through space--then blackness--and a terrific crash.

And now the other car had come to a stop almost opposite where she
lay. Danglar and the two chauffeurs, shouting at each other in wild
excitement, leaped out and rushed to the edge of the embankment. And
then suddenly the sky grew red as a great tongue-flame shot up from
below. It outlined the forms of the three men as they stood there,
until, abruptly, as though with one accord, they rushed pell-mell down
the embankment toward the burning wreckage. And as they disappeared from
sight Rhoda Gray jumped to her feet, sprang for Danglar's car, flung
herself into the driver's seat, and the car shot forward again along the
road.

A shout, a wild chorus of yells, the reports of a fusillade of shots
reached her; she caught a glimpse of forms running insanely after her
along the edge of the embankment--then silence save for the roar of the
speeding car.

She drove on and on. Somewhere, nearing a town, she saw a train in the
distance coming in her direction. She reached the station first, and
left the car standing there, and, with the torn veil over her face
again, took the train.

She was weak, undone, exhausted. Even her mind refused its functions
further. It was only in a subconscious way she realized that, where she
had thought never to go to the garret again, the garret and the role of
Gypsy Nan were, more than ever now, her sole refuge. The plot against
Cloran had failed, but they could not blame that on "Bertha's"
non-appearance; and since it had failed she would not now be expected
to assume the dead woman's personality. True, she had not, as had been
arranged, reached the Silver Sphinx at eleven, but there were a hundred
excuses she could give to