"It's all fixed," he said. "Let's go."
There was a car waiting — a big cream and red speedster that looked as if it could pass anything else on the road and cost its owner a small fortune for the privilege. In a few moments Mr. Journ, still clutching his precious bag, found himself being whirled recklessly through the outskirts of London.
He released one hand from his bag to hold on to his hat, and submitted to the hurricane speed of the getaway in a kind of trance. The brilliant driving of his guide made no impression on his numbed brain, and even the route they took registered itself on his mind only subconsciously. His whole existence had passed into a sort of cyclonic nightmare which took away his breath and left a ghastly gnawing emptiness in his chest. The passage of time was merely a change in the positions of the hands of his watch, without any other significance.
And then, in the same deadened way, he became aware that the car had stopped, and the driver was getting out. They were in a narrow lane far from the main road, somewhere between Tring and Aylesbury.
"This is as far as we go, brother," said the Saint.
Mr. Journ levered himself stiffly out. There were open fields all around, partly hidden by the hedges which lined the lane.
Inspector Tombs was lighting another cigarette.
"And now, dear old bird," he murmured, "you must pay your fare."
Sumner Journ nodded, and fumbled with the fastening of his case.
"But I don't mind taking it in the bag," Simon said quietly.