“ ‘The butler,’ ” whispered Prenderby excitedly.
Abbershaw nodded; he too had recognized the man.
Mr. Haywhistle’s manner was perfect.
“ ’Ere you are sir,” they heard him say cheerfully. “Your friend won’t be long. Said ’e’d be round just before twelve. I shouldn’t stand out there,” he went on tactfully, as the man showed a disposition to look about him. “I’m always ’aving cars swing in ’ere without looking where they’re going. I can’t stop ’em. It’s dangerous you know. That’s right. Come inside.”
As the two figures disappeared, a third, moving rapidly with quick, nervous steps, hurried in out of the darkness.
The three men in the car caught a glimpse of him as he passed into the garage. It was Whitby himself.
“Shall I start the engine?” murmured Prenderby.
Martin put a warning hand on his.
“Wait till they start theirs,” he said. “Now.”
Michael trod softly on the starter and the Riley began to purr.
“Keep back, see which way they turn, and then after them,” Martin whispered sharply. “Hullo! Here they come!”
Even as he spoke there was the soft rustle of wheels on the concrete and then the curious top-heavy old car glided softly and gently into the road, taking the direction of Wanstead, away from the city.
Prenderby dropped in the clutch and the Riley slipped out of its hiding-place and darted out in pursuit, a graceful silver fish amid the traffic.
XXVII
A Journey by Night
For the first few miles, while they were still in the traffic, Prenderby contented himself with keeping the disguised Rolls in sight. It would be absurd, he realized, to overtake them while still in London, since they were acting in an unofficial capacity and he was particularly anxious not to arouse the suspicions of the occupants of the car in front of them.
He went warily, therefore, contriving always to keep a fair amount of traffic between them.
Martin was exultant. He was convinced by his own theory, and was certain that the last act of the Black Dudley mystery was about to take place.
Prenderby was too much absorbed by the details of the chase to give any adequate thought to the ultimate result.
Abbershaw alone was dubious. This, like everything else connected with the whole extraordinary business, appalled him by its amazing informality. He could not rid his mind of the thought that it was all terribly illegal—and besides that, at the back of his mind, there was always that other question, that problem which had caused him so many sleepless nights since his return to London. He hoped Martin was right in his theory, but he was sufficiently alarmed by his own secret thought to wish not to put Martin’s idea to the test. He wanted to think Martin was right, to find out nothing that would make him look elsewhere for the murderer.
As they escaped from the tramway lines and came out into that waste of little new houses which separates the city from the fields, they and the grotesque old car in front were practically alone on the wide ill-lighted roads.
It was growing cold and there was a suggestion of a ground mist so that the car in front looked like a dim ghost returned from the early days of motoring.
As the last of the houses vanished and they settled down into that long straight strip of road through the forest, Prenderby spoke:
“How about now?” he said. “Shall I open out?”
Martin glanced at Abbershaw.
“What do you think?” he said.
Abbershaw hesitated.
“I don’t quite see what you intend to do,” he said. “Suppose you succeed in stopping them, what are you going to say? We have no proof against the man and no authority to do anything if we had.”
“But we’re going to get proof,” said Martin cheerfully. “That’s the big idea. First we stop them, then we sit on their heads while they talk.”
Abbershaw shook his head.
“I don’t think we’d get much out of them that way,” he said. “And if we did it wouldn’t be evidence. No, if you take my advice you’ll run them to earth. Then perhaps we’ll find something, although really, my dear Martin, I can’t help feeling—”
“Let’s kick him out, Prenderby,” said Martin, “he’s trying to spoil the party.”
Abbershaw grinned.
“I think we’re doing all we can do,” he said. “After all it’s no good letting them out of our sight.”
Prenderby sighed.
“I wish you’d decided to overtake,” he said. “This is a marvellous road. It wouldn’t hurt us to be a bit nearer, anyway, would it?”
Martin nudged him gently:
“If you want to try your speed, my lad,” he said, “here’s your opportunity. The old lady has started to move.”
The other two glanced ahead sharply. The Rolls had suddenly begun to move at something far beyond her previous respectable rate. The red taillight was already disappearing into the distance.
Prenderby’s share in the conversation came to an abrupt end. The Riley began to purr happily and they shot forward at an ever-increasing pace until the speedometer showed sixty.
“Steady!” said Martin. “Don’t pass them in your excitement. We don’t want them to spot us either.”
“What makes you so sure that they haven’t done so already?” said Abbershaw shrewdly, and added as they glanced at him inquiringly, “I couldn’t help thinking as we came along that they were going very leisurely, taking their time, when there was plenty of other traffic on the road. As soon as we were alone together they began to move. I believe they’ve spotted us.”
Prenderby spoke without looking round.
“He’s right,” he said. “Either that or they’re suddenly in the deuce of a hurry. I’m afraid they’re suspicious of us. They can’t possibly know who we are with lights like these.”
“Then I say,” cut in Martin excitedly, “they’ll try to dodge us. I’d get as near as you can and then sit on their tail if I were you.”
Abbershaw said nothing and the Riley
