The next overture from the Rolls was as startling as it was abrupt. The little rear window opened suddenly and a bullet hit the road directly in front of them.
Prenderby swerved and brought the Riley almost to a full stop.
“A potshot at our front tyre,” he said. “If he’d got us we’d have turned over. Martin, I believe you’re on the right tack. The cove is desperate.”
“Of course I’m right,” said Martin excitedly. “But don’t let them get away, man, they’ll be out of sight in a minute.”
“Sorry,” said Prenderby obstinately, “I’m keeping my distance. You don’t seem to realize the result of a tyre-burst at that pace.”
“Oh, he won’t do it again,” said Martin cheerfully. “Besides, he’s a rotten shot anyway.”
Prenderby said no more, but he was careful to keep at a respectable distance from the Rolls.
“They’ll start moving now,” said Martin. “We shall have our work cut out if we’re going to be in at the death. Look out for the side turnings. Do you know this road at all?”
“Pretty well,” said Prenderby. “He’s heading for Chelmsford, I should say, or somewhere round there. I think he’ll have some difficulty in shaking us off.”
The big car ahead was now speeding away from them rapidly and Prenderby had his hands full to keep them anywhere in sight. In Chelmsford they lost sight of it altogether and were forced to inquire of a policeman in the deserted High Street.
The placid country bobby took the opportunity of inspecting their licence and then conceded the information that a “vehicle of a type now obsolete, and bearing powerful lamps” had passed through the town, taking the Springfield road for Kelvedon and Colchester some three minutes before their own arrival.
The Riley sped on down the winding road through the town, Martin cursing vigorously.
“Now we’re sunk,” he said. “Missed them sure as Pancake-tide. They’ve only got to nip into a side road and shut off their lamps and we’re done. In fact,” he went on disconsolately, “I don’t know if there’s any point in going on at all now.”
“There’s only one point,” cut in Abbershaw quietly. “If by chance they are going somewhere definite—I mean if they want to get to a certain spot in set time—they’ll probably go straight on and trust to luck that they’ve shaken us off.”
“That’s right,” said Martin. “Let’s go on full tilt to Colchester and ask there. No one could miss a bus like that. It looks as if it ought not to be about alone. Full steam ahead, Michael.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Prenderby cheerfully and trod on the accelerator.
They went through Witham at a speed that would have infuriated the local authorities, but still the road was ghostly and deserted. At length, just outside Kelvedon, far away in the distance there appeared the faint haze of giant headlights against the trees.
Martin whooped.
“A sail, a sail, captain,” he said. “It must be her. Put some speed into it, Michael.”
“All right. If we seize up or leave the road, on your head be it,” said Prenderby, through his teeth. “She’s all out now.”
The hedges on either side of them became blurred and indistinct. Finally, in the long straight strip between Marks Tey and Lexden, they slowly crept up behind the big car again.
“That’s her all right,” said Martin; “she’s crawling, isn’t she? Comparatively, I mean. I believe Abbershaw’s hit it. She’s keeping an appointment. Look here, let’s drop down and shut off our headlights—the sides will carry us.”
“Hullo! Where’s he off to now?”
It was Michael who spoke. The car ahead had taken a sudden turn to the right, forsaking the main road.
“After her,” said Martin, with suppressed excitement. “Now we’re coming to it, I do believe. Any idea where that leads to?”
“No,” said Michael. “I haven’t the least. There’s only a lane there if I remember. Probably the drive of a house.”
“All the better.” Martin was enthusiastic. “That means we have located them anyway.”
“Wait a bit,” said Michael, as, dimming his lights, he swung round after the other car. “It’s not a drive. I remember it now. There’s a signpost over there somewhere which says, ‘To Birch,’ wherever ‘Birch’ may be. Gosh! No speeding on this road, my children,” he added suddenly, as he steered the Riley round a concealed right-angle bend in the road.
The headlights of the car they were following were still just visible several turns ahead. For the next few miles the journey developed into a nightmare. The turns were innumerable.
“God knows how we’re going to get back,” grumbled Michael. “I don’t know which I prefer; your friend with the gun or an attempt to find our way back through these roads before morning.”
“Cheer up,” said Martin consolingly. “You may get both. Any idea where we are? Was that a church we passed just now?”
“I thought I heard a cow,” suggested Abbershaw helpfully.
“Let’s catch ’em up,” said Martin. “It’s time something definite happened.”
Abbershaw shook his head.
“That’s no good, my dear fellow,” he said. “Don’t you see our position? We can’t stop a man in the middle of the night and accuse him of murder without more proof or more authority. We must find out where he is and that’s all.”
Martin was silent. He had no intention of allowing the adventure to end so tamely. They struggled on without speaking.
At length, after what had seemed to be an interminable drive, through narrow miry lanes with surfaces like ploughed fields, through forgotten villages, past ghostly churches dimly outlined against the sky, guided only by the glare ahead, the darkness began to grey and in the uncertain light of the dawn they found themselves on a track of short springy grass amid the most desolate surroundings any one of them had ever seen.
On
