CHAPTER

ESTON'S REASONS FOR ASSUMING that there would be no immediate move on the part of the police were sound as far as they went. He had reasoned that they would be content to watch for the time being since they had not paused when they came within view of their quarry. There was only one flaw in his reasoning. That was Detective-Sergeant Wade. Wade had all that day been acting as Garfield's deputy during the latter Is absence, and had obeyed instructions by having an eye kept on Eston until Garfield should decide to take active steps. Wade was enjoying the relief from routine duty in town, and since he saw a way to combine business with pleasure, he was one of the white-flanneled figures in the skiff that had aroused attention from the house-boat.

      Now Wade had a high appreciation of Eston's capacity—in ingenuity of resource he knew himself far outmatched, but he had a bulldog tenacity that served him very often nearly as well as delicate finesse. He was not an easy man to throw off once he had got his teeth fixed. So it was that he did not altogether rely on the men who were watching the landward side of Eston's retreat.

      Through a pair of powerful binoculars he had watched Nora Dring leave the house-boat. He became somewhat uneasy when he saw Eston follow her some time later. When be saw Nora return, and in a little leave with Hilary, carrying a small hand bag, he deemed that things might be happening of which it would be well he should know. Of course there were a couple of good men the other side—but—well, it was always as well to be sure!

      Nora, over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of the skiff pulling across the stream, and smothered an exclamation.

      "They've seen us, Hilary! They're coming across! We must hurry—oh, hurry!" she exclaimed.

      They broke into a run, and as they did so Wade's suspicions were fanned to a flame. He and his companion pulled savagely, but Wade's skill was not equal to his energy, and he caught a crab in midstream and only the sbeerest luck prevented him taking an involuntary ducking.

      "It's a get-away!" he snapped. "By the great blue snake, the guv'nor will be hopping mad if we lose 'em!"

      But the girls were well beyond the gate before the two detectives landed, and no amount of sprinting would have served to overtake them in any reasonable distance. Nevertheless, Wade and his companion made the effort. They were in time to see a powerful motor-car pick up the two and disappear in a cloud of dust. If Wade had been less stirred, he would have recognized the futility of men on foot chasing a fast car. Yet he held doggedly on, hoping, perhaps, for some remote chance. The car was long out of sight when they reached the main road into which the by-lane led. Wade collapsed, panting, to the side of a ditch.

      "A clean get-away!" he gasped. "And me thinking we'd got 'em. corked up nice and tight. Not even got the number of their car—though that would be a fat lot of use. I expect it's faked!"

      His companion was gazing up the dusty, white strip of road towards Twyford.

      "They're coming back!" he announced.

      "No such luck," groaned Wade, but stirred himself so far as to rise and watch the cloud of dust that was rapidly approaching them. It resolved itself into a big four-seater, and drew to a standstill as it neared them.

      "Here's luck, " said Wade. "It's the guv'nor."

      Jimmie Silverdale was at the wheel, and seated by his side, cool and imperturbable, a flower in his buttonhole, was Garfield. He nodded to his "aide."

      "Got 'em bottled up safe still, eh?"

      Wade groaned.

      "Did you pass a big car going hell for leather a few minutes ago?"

      Both Silverdale and Garfield jumped to the situation in a flash. As simultaneous ejaculations burst from them, Wade wagged his head in assent.

      "That's them! They've slipped us!"

      "Have they!" said Garfield resolutely. "We'll see! Jump in, Wade!"

      Jimmie was already backing the big car round. Wade turned to his companion on their fruitless run.

      "Slip back to see what has become of our other two men. I'll get along with Mr. Garfield. Right you are, sir! Go ahead!"

      Garfield left Jimmie to himself and took his seat in the tonneau with Wade.

      "I'd blame some men for a business like this," he said, "but I know you've done everything that could be done. Tell me about it. Let her out, Jimmie, we've got to overtake them!"

      "If we'd only thought," answered Jimmie. "We had 'em practically in our bands."

      "No good crying over spilt milk," said the inspector. "We couldn't hold up every car we met on the offchance that Eston was in it. We'd have a lively time! We've got a sporting chance of catching them. They wouldn't expect us to be off the mark so soon. Now, then, Wade!"

      Jimmie pulled at the lever, and the great car slid smoothly forward, gaining momentum with every inch. For once all such things as speed limits were forgotten. All that mattered was overtaking the fugitives—if, indeed such a thing was possible.

      Given a good car not too distinctive in appearance, with a start that enables it to get well out of sight on a network of roads, and the odds are against any successful pursuit, even in an equally good car. In something less than half an hour the futility of the chase became apparent. Since this is a plain story, an apology is due to the reader for the failure of Garfield and Silverdale to follow up a trail that would have been inevitable—to the reader of detective novels. They might, for instance, have followed the distinctive imprint of Eston's tires on the roadif there had been any distinctive imprint, which there was not. Their inquiries, necessarily vague, met with still vaguer replies. At every crossroads they lost time, and there was no certainty, after all their trouble, that they were not moving in an opposite direction to that taken by Eston and his companions.

      Silverdale pulled the car up, and looked over his shoulder at the detective.

      "It's no go!" he proclaimed ruefully. "We're up against it!"

      Garfield got out of the body of the car, and resumed his seat by Silverdale.

      "If we had happened to recognize them as we passed," he said. "However, it's the luck of the game. We'll get back to Twyford, Jimmie."

      They reached the spot where they had picked up Wade in less than an hour from the time they had left it and made their way through the lane leading to the bouse-boat. Among the detectives now concentrated on that flower-bedecked craft were two bruised and disconcerted men who were looking forward none too eagerly to their interview with the chief inspector.

      He listened quietly while they told their stories in the blunt, matter-of-fact way that police officers affect in their relations with their superiors.

      "The plain fact is," he commented, "that Eston was too clever for both of you. He played you for a couple of nickers."

      Garfield took off his coat and got to business. It needed no practiced eye to see that the departure of the fugitives had been taken without pre-arrangement. Presently the inspector's eye lit on a white square on a small table. He picked it up.

      "Hallo, Jimmie!" he said. "This looks as if it belonged to you!"

      He handed over a small envelope. Jimmie turned it over in his hand. It was addressed:

      Very private.

      J. Silverdale, Esq.

      By Courtesy of the Police.

      "Becoming a convenient postman for a change," said Garfield. "I'll hazard a bet that's from your little lady friend, Miss Hilary Sloane!"

      Silverdale tore it open.

      "You're right," he observed. "It's from Hilary."