However, he kept on northward, past the entrance to the Park. We
hung doggedly on.
Where was he going? I wondered whether Garrick might have been
wrong, after all. Half a mile lengthened into a mile. Still he was
speeding on.
But Garrick had guessed right. Sure enough, at a cross road, the
other car slowed down, then quickly swung around, off the main
road.
"What are you going to do?" I asked Garrick quickly. "If we turn
also, that will be too raw. Surely he'll notice that."
"Going to stop," cried Garrick, taking in the situation instantly.
"Come on, Tom, jump out. We'll fake a little tire trouble, in case
he should look around and see us stopping here. I'll keep the
engine running."
We went back and stood ostentatiously by the rear wheel. Garrick
bent over it, keeping his eye fixed on the other car, now perhaps
half a mile along on the narrow crossroad.
It neared the top of a hill on the other side of the valley across
which the road wound like a thin brown line, then dipped down over
the crest and was lost on the other side.
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