Then, just as she wavered on the edge of fainting from the nervous strain she had undergone, the whole scene changed. There was a crash of glass, and a voice which seemed faintly familiar ordered sharply:
“Hands up!”
A scuffle, two shots, a cry of pain, and the fall of a heavy body to the floor; more sounds of rapid movement in the room; a voice shouting directions; another shot, outside the house—all these impinged on her consciousness without her grasping exactly what had happened. With a last effort of will she wrenched herself round on the bed, so that she could see the room.
Sir Clinton, pistol in hand, was stooping over the third man, who lay groaning on the floor. At the open window she could see Wendover climbing into the room; and, as he jumped down, Inspector Armadale dashed in through the open door. Rescue had come just too late; and, as she realised this, her power of resistance gave out, and she fainted.
Sir Clinton made a gesture to Wendover, putting him in charge of the unconscious girl, while he himself turned back to his captive.
“I’ve smashed your shoulder with that shot, I think, Billingford,” he commented. “You’re safe enough, my man, now that I’ve taken your gun away from you. You’ll stay where you are until my constables come for you. Mr. Wendover will keep an eye on you—and he’ll shoot you without the slightest compunction, I’m sure, if you give trouble.”
Billingford seemed engrossed in more immediate afflictions.
“Oh! It hurts damnably!” he muttered.
“Glad to hear it,” Sir Clinton declared unsympathetically. “It’ll keep you quiet. Well, inspector?”
Armadale held up a bleeding hand.
“They got me,” he said laconically. “It’s only a flesh-wound. But they’ve cleared off in their car—hell-for-leather.”
Sir Clinton turned to Wendover.
“You look after that girl. The constables will be here in a few minutes. Shoot Billingford in the leg, if he shows the slightest sign of moving, though I don’t expect he’ll do much. I’ve got to get on the track of those two who broke away.”
Followed by the inspector, he hurried out into the night.
XVI
The Manhunt on the Beach
Much to the inspector’s surprise, Sir Clinton did not drive furiously when they had got into his car, which had been left standing at some distance from the cottage. It was only when they almost ran into the approaching squad of police that he understood his superior’s caution.
“Two of you get on board,” said Sir Clinton, as he pulled up. “Four more go up to the cottage; and the rest of you make the best time you can down to the hotel and wait there for orders.”
When the two constables had got into the car, he drove off again; and this time the inspector had no reason to complain of slow speeds. His heart was in his mouth as Sir Clinton took the turn out of the avenue into the main road.
“You’ve got the number of their car, haven’t you?” the chief constable demanded. “Then tell one of the constables to telephone a warning about it to headquarters from the hotel. I’m going to drop him there. And tell him to send a party with a car up at once to the cottage to get Mrs. Fleetwood down comfortably. You’d better get Billingford brought down also—not in the same car.”
The inspector transmitted these instructions just in time to allow the constable to alight from the car as Sir Clinton pulled up at the hotel gate. Without hesitation, the chief constable swung the car off along the road to Lynden Sands and opened the throttle to its fullest.
“Sure they’re going this way, sir?” Armadale asked.
“No, just taking a chance. They’ll want to get clear of the car as soon as possible, I expect, since it’s recognisable now that we’ve got the number. I may be all wrong, of course.”
The big car tore on in the moonlight, and the speed left the inspector little inclination for talk. He gasped once or twice as they swung round corners, and his main feeling was one of thankfulness that at that hour of the night they were not likely to meet anything on the road. One last turn, which made Armadale and the constable grip frenziedly at the nearest handhold, and they came out on the edge of the bay.
“Look!” the inspector ejaculated. “You’ve pulled them in, sir.”
Not three hundred yards ahead, the hunted car appeared in the moonlight, travelling much slower than Armadale had expected, but apparently gaining speed as it ran.
“They’ve parted company,” Sir Clinton snapped. “The car’s slowed down to let one man off. There’s only the driver on board now.”
Suddenly, at a point where the road ran level with the beach, their quarry left the highway and plunged down on to the sands.
“He’s trying to gain something by cutting straight across the beach, sir, instead of following the curve of the road.”
Armadale, expecting Sir Clinton to do the same, gripped the side of the car in anticipation of the shock when they left the road; but the chief constable held to the highway.
“He’s making for Flatt’s cottage, to get the boat and leave us standing,” he said. “He’ll get a surprise when he finds the oars gone.”
The inspector had no time to admire his chief’s forethought. The hunted car was now running on a line which would bring it between the old wreck and the edge of the incoming tide; and on the hard sands it was making tremendous speed. Armadale, leaning forward in the excitement of the chase, saw the long cones of its headlights illuminate the hull of the wreck for a moment; then the beams swung up into the air; the car seemed to halt for an instant, and then rolled over sideways along the sands. And then it vanished as though the
