Grey dust whitened his dark-brown face, rimmed his blue eyes, now brilliant and agate hard. The fine lips were drawntaut, revealing his white teeth in what was almost an animal snarl of fury. The zooming of the plane’s engine was distorted in his ears, still feeling the shock of the explosion. His hands rested on the ground and his fingers dug constantly into its softness.

That the pilot had flown here with the specific intention of destroying a car and its driver was as evident as the shade cast by the trees. Doubtless the pilot had watched the car crossing the plain. He knew, without doubt, just where the road crossed the hill range, and before making his attack he had flown over the road for many miles towards Shaw’s Lagoon to be certain there were no travellers upon it who would observe his subsequent act, or see his machine, and afterwards connect it with the destruction of the car.

The only cover near the road for many miles was that provided by the grove of cabbage-trees, and, to make doubly sure he would escape observation from a chance traveller camped in the shade of the trees, he dropped his bomb among them.

Bonaparte was tempted to run from the trees down to the blazing wreckage. To have succumbed to the temptation would have been stupid. For one thing, the car had come to rest at least half a mile from him; and for another there was no possible chance of rescuing its occupant, who must have died from the exploding bombs.

Having partially recovered from the surprise and stunning effect of the “exploratory” bomb, Bonaparte thrust the letter into a pocket and leaned back against his swag to watch and wait. There was more than a hint of determination that none should escape the attack on the car as the aeroplane continued to circle low above what was a mass of blackened metal, enveloped by fire. For several minutes the plane circled. Then the pilot turned the machine westward, skimmed a hill-top and vanished from Bonaparte’s vision.