Saturday was not yet far advanced enough to have released its stream of pleasure-traffic, so late in the year especially. Their right of way was disputed only by occasional lorries and market-carts. Two motorcycles they overhauled, with a spasm of hope each time, which died down upon a nearer view. The road was for the most part a gentle switchback, rising and falling over the long folds of the countryside, and at the top of each incline their eyes swept the stretch in front of them for a sight of the fugitive. The surface in front of the engine seemed to spring into a cascade and jumped out on you suddenly; the sere hedges became streaks of gold.
They had gone ten miles without sighting their quarry, and the sergeant began to grow anxious. “The expresses stop at Weighford,” he said, “and that’s only a mile or two on.” He turned to his colleague behind. “D’you remember what time the express from the north stops at Weighford? Quarter to twelve? That’s bad. You see, sir, if he gets to Weighford before we catch sight of him, he may drive through it or he may turn aside to the station; and if he makes for the station he’ll most likely catch the express for London.”
“So can we, if we don’t get held up at Weighford. A quarter to twelve, did you say? I think we ought to do it. But if we don’t sight him first, it’s a bad lookout. What’s that on ahead?”
“That’s not the one, sir. Ah, there’s the goods sidings; express isn’t signalled yet.”
Weighford is a straggling, unpleasant town, which seems to cast a blight on the road as it passes through, and they were mercilessly bumped. More than once, too, they had to slow down; and finally, to crown their disappointment, they saw the gates of a level-crossing shut against them. Then, just as Reeves was slowing down, the gates began to swing open, and the sergeant suddenly crowed with delight. “That’s him, sir! Got held up at the level crossing, and now he’s only half a minute’s start of us.”
The remainder of the race was a thing only to be remembered in nightmares—the children that only just got out of the way in time, the dog that didn’t; the lorry that wanted to turn in the middle of the road. … But they had their man marked now, and could see that he was making for the railway; could hear, too, the whistle of the express and the grinding of the brakes as it slowed down into the station. At the further platform a quiet, rural train with the label Binver was sitting on its haunches and panting after the exhaustion of its last five-mile crawl. The stationmaster was fortunately found, and the progress of the express held up in the interests of a police search. The fugitive had left the sidecar standing at the entrance and lost himself among the passengers before his pursuers could alight.
The search, laboriously and muddle-headedly carried on with the aid of the station officials, lasted some five minutes without any result. Fussy passengers might have been paid by the criminal to delay operations, so ready were they with helpful advice. At last an inspector pointed to a door on the non-platform side of an empty first-class carriage, which was unfastened.
“Got through on to the six-foot way, that’s what he’s done, and slinking round on the other platform maybe.”
“Wrong!” shouted Reeves in a flash of inspiration; “he got through into the Binver train just as it went off, and hadn’t time to shut the door properly. Sergeant, it’s us for the road again!” The sergeant hesitated, then allowed himself to be fascinated by the theory. The station staff was left with orders to go on searching; the sidecar was entrusted to the Weighford police, and, within a quarter of an hour of their arrival, Reeves and the two Binver policemen were tearing back along the main road as fast as they had come down it.
Local trains waste most of their time waiting at stations and chatting to the signalman. When they are on the move, they are not really easy to catch even with a fast motor, especially when they have nearly ten minutes’ start. There was no stop, so far as this train was concerned, between Weighford and Paston Oatvile. Paston Oatvile had, of course, been warned to hold up the train on arrival, but the staff there was neither numerous nor intelligent, and it seemed very probable that the elusive passenger would be on his travels again, if they could not be on the platform to intercept him. This time Reeves excelled himself and so did the Tarquin. There was no doubt about the objective; no mental undercurrent of hesitancy to breed infirmity of purpose. The driver himself became part of the machine, a mere lever in the relentless engine of human justice. Almost all the way the line was visible from the road; and as reach after reach of it was disclosed, three pairs of eyes searched for the puff of smoke that would mark the Binver train.
They saw it at last when they were a full mile off. A moment more, and they were at the station gates almost before the wheels of
