Far ahead of them the old black car lumbered on.
Martin sniffed.
“The sea,” he said. “I wonder if that old miracle ahead swims? A bus like that might do anything. That would just about sink us if we went to follow them.”
“Just about,” said Michael dryly. “What do we do now?”
“I suppose we go on to the bitter end,” said Martin. “They may have a family houseboat out there. Hullo! Look at them now.”
The Rolls had at last come to a full stop, although the headlights were still streaming out over the turf.
Michael brought the Riley up sharply.
“What now?” he said.
“Now the fun begins,” said Martin. “Get out your gun, Abbershaw.”
Hardly had he spoken when an exclamation came down the morning to them, followed immediately by a revolver shot which again fell short of them.
Without hesitation Martin fired back. The snap of his automatic was instantly followed by a much larger explosion.
“That’s their back tyre,” he said. “Let’s get behind the car and play soldiers. They’re sure to retaliate. This is going to be fun.”
But in this he was mistaken. Neither Whitby nor his companion seemed inclined for further shooting. The two figures were plainly discernible through the fast-lightening gloom, Whitby in a long dust coat and a soft hat, and the other man taller and thinner, his cap still well down over his face.
And then, while they were still looking at him, Whitby thrust his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a large white handkerchief which he shook at them solemnly, waving it up and down. Its significance was unmistakable.
Abbershaw began to laugh. Even Martin grinned.
“That’s matey, anyway,” he said. “What happens next?”
XXVIII
Should a Doctor Tell?
Still holding the handkerchief well in front of him, Whitby came a pace or two nearer, and presently his weak, half-apologetic voice came to them down the wind.
“Since we’ve both got guns, perhaps we’d better talk,” he shouted thinly. “What do you want?”
Martin glanced at Abbershaw.
“Keep him covered,” he murmured. “Prenderby, old boy, you’d better walk behind us. We don’t know what their little game is yet.”
They advanced slowly—absurdly, Abbershaw could not help thinking—on that vast open salting, miles from anywhere.
Whitby was still the harassed, scared-looking little man who had come to ask Abbershaw for his assistance on that fateful night at Black Dudley. He was, if anything, a little more composed now than then, and he greeted them affably.
“Well, here we are, aren’t we?” he said, and paused. “What do you want?”
Martin Watt opened his mouth to speak; he had a very clear notion of what he wanted and was anxious to explain it.
Abbershaw cut him short, however.
“A word or two of conversation, Doctor,” he said.
The little man blinked at him dubiously.
“Why, yes, of course,” he said, “of course. I should hate to disappoint you. You’ve come a long way for it, haven’t you?”
He was so patently nervous that in spite of themselves they could not get away from the thought that they were very unfairly matched.
“Where shall we talk?” continued the little doctor, still timidly. “I suppose there must be quite a lot of things you want to ask me?”
Martin pocketed his gun.
“Look here, Whitby,” he said, “That is the point—there are lots of things. That’s why we’ve come. If you’re sensible you’ll give us straight answers. You know what happened at Black Dudley after you left, of course?”
“I—I read in the papers,” faltered the little figure in front of them. “Most regrettable. Who would have thought that such a clever, intelligent man would turn out to be such a dreadful criminal?”
Martin shook his head.
“That’s no good, Doc,” he said. “You see, not everything came out in the papers.”
Whitby sighed. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps if you told me exactly how much you know I should see precisely what to tell you.”
Martin grinned at this somewhat ambiguous remark.
“Suppose we don’t make things quite so simple as that,” he said. “Suppose we both put our cards on the table—all of them.”
He had moved a step nearer as he spoke and the little doctor put up his hand warningly.
“Forgive me, Mr. Watt,” he said. “But my friend behind me is very clever with his pistol, as you may have noticed, and we’re right in his range now, aren’t we? If I were you I really think I’d take my gun out again.”
Martin stared at him and slowly drew his weapon out of his pocket.
“That’s right,” said Whitby. “Now we’ll go a little farther away from him, shall we? You were saying—?”
Martin was bewildered. This was the last attitude he had expected a fugitive to take up in the middle of a saltmarsh at four o’clock in the morning.
Abbershaw spoke quietly behind him.
“It’s Colonel Coombe’s death we are interested in, Doctor,” he said. “Your position at Black Dudley has been explained to us.”
He watched the man narrowly as he spoke but there was no trace of surprise or fear on the little man’s face.
He seemed relieved.
“Oh! I see,” he said. “You, Doctor Abbershaw, would naturally be interested in the fate of my patient’s body. As a matter of fact, he was cremated at Eastchester, thirty-six hours after I left Black Dudley. But, of course,” he went on cheerfully, “you will want to know the entire history. After we left the house we went straight over to the registrar’s. He was very sympathetic. Like everybody else in the vicinity he knew of the Colonel’s weak health and was not surprised at my news. In fact, he was most obliging. Your signature and mine were quite enough for him. He signed immediately and we continued our journey. I was on my way back to the house when I received—by the merest chance—the news of the unfortunate incidents which had taken place in my absence. And so,” he added with charming frankness, “we altered our number plates
