“The quicksand!” ejaculated Armadale, as he realised what had happened.
Sir Clinton shut the throttle and let his car slow down.
“Hit some rock projecting slightly from the sand, I expect,” he commented. “Probably the front axle or the steering-gear went, and he came to smash. Well, that’s one of ’em gone.”
He chose a place carefully and turned his own car on to the sands, running down to near the wreck.
“Don’t go too near,” he advised. “One can’t be sure of the danger-zone.”
They got out and went down to the scene of the disaster. A glance at the car-tracks showed the correctness of Sir Clinton’s guess. The hunted car had struck a low projecting rock with its near front wheel; and from that point the wheel-marks were replaced by the trace of the whole vehicle, overturned and sliding along the beach. The trail ended abruptly; and where the car had sunk they saw an area of repulsive black mud.
“Ugh!” said the inspector, examining it with disgust. “Fancy going down into that stuff and feeling it getting into your eyes and mouth. And then choking in that slime! It gives me the creeps to think of it.”
He shuddered at the picture conjured up by what he saw before him.
“Do you think there’s any chance of recovering the body?” he inquired after a moment or two.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“I doubt it. You’ll need to try, of course; best do it with grappling-irons from a boat, I suppose. But I shouldn’t think you’re likely to succeed. It doesn’t matter much, anyhow. He’s got his deserts. Now for the other man. Come along!”
They went back to the car and got aboard. Sir Clinton seemed to have decided on his next move, for he drove along the sands in the direction of the hotel. Rather to the inspector’s surprise, they did not turn off on to the road at Neptune’s Seat, but went still farther along the shore, making for the headland on which the Blowhole was situated.
Armadale was still in ignorance of much that had happened in the last hour. When they had reached Peter Hay’s cottage, Sir Clinton had detached the inspector to search for the car which had brought their quarry; and, as this had been carefully concealed, Armadale had spent some time in hunting for it. In the meanwhile, Sir Clinton and Wendover had gone cautiously to the cottage. The next thing the inspector heard was the sound of shooting; and two men had come upon him before he had time even to think of disabling the fugitives’ car. They had shot him in the hand, flung him down, and escaped in the car before he had time to do anything to hinder them. His entry into the cottage had failed to enlighten him as to what had been going on; and Sir Clinton had hurried him off again almost before he had time to get his bearings.
“That’s as far as we can go with the car,” Sir Clinton announced, opening the door and getting out.
The moon shone out just at that moment, as a passing cloud slipped away from its face; and Sir Clinton, gazing along the shore, uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
“We’re in luck, inspector! See him? Yonder, just under the cliff. He hasn’t been able to get far.”
He pulled out his automatic.
“I’ve often wondered how far these things carry. I don’t want to hurt him, and it seems safe enough at this range. A scare’s all we need, I think. He’s making for the mouth of the cave below the headland.”
He lifted the pistol and fired in the direction of the figure. At the sound of the shot, the fugitive turned and, seeing his pursuers, ran stumblingly over the rocks where the edge of the tide was washing close up against the cliff.
“No hurry,” Sir Clinton pointed out, as Armadale and the constable quickened their steps. “We’ve got him trapped by the tide. There’s only one bolt-hole—the cave. And I hope he takes it,” he added, with something of sinister enjoyment in his tone which surprised the inspector.
They moved leisurely in the direction of the cave-mouth; and, as they did so, the fugitive gave one backward glance and then splashed waist-deep through the water which was foaming into the entrance. He ducked under the low arch and vanished. As he did so, Sir Clinton halted, and then, after a careful inspection of the incoming tide, he led the way back to the car.
“It’s as cheap sitting as standing,” he commented, settling himself comfortably in the driving-seat. “We’ll need to wait here until the tide shuts the door on him by filling that tunnel he’s gone through. After that, I suspect he’ll be the most anxious of the lot of us.”
“But there’s another exit from that cave,” Armadale pointed out. “He’s probably climbing up the tube of the Blowhole just now, sir. He might get clean away by the top of the headland.”
Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette in a leisurely fashion.
“I’m sure I hope he does,” he replied, much to the inspector’s surprise. “Just wait a moment and you’ll see.”
He smoked for a minute or two without troubling to make his meaning clear; and then the souffleur itself gave the answer. Armadale’s ear caught the sound of a deep gurgle from the heights above their head; then came a noise like a giant catching his breath; and at last from the Blowhole there shot up the column of spray, towering white and menacing in the moonlight. As it fell, Sir Clinton pressed the self-starter.
“That bolts the back door, you see, inspector. I only hope he’s been caught on the threshold. Now, I think, we can go back to the hotel and see if we can pick up one or two useful things.”
He turned the car on the last strip of sand before the rocks and swung it round towards Neptune’s Seat. After a little searching, he found a spot from
