A thought struck Dick, and he drove the inspector round to the police-station and went inside with him.
“I want an envelope and some official paper,” he said, and, sitting down at the desk, he made a rough copy of the reprieve with its quaint terminology, sealed the envelope with wax and put it into his pocket. Then he took the real reprieve, and, taking off his shoe and sock, put it between his bare foot and his sock. Replacing his shoe, he jumped on to the car and started his cautious way toward Didcot. Both his glare lamps were on, and the road before him was as light as day. Nevertheless, he went at half speed, one of his Brownings on the cushion beside him.
Against the afterglow of the sunset, a faint, pale light which is the glory of late summer, he saw three inverted V’s and knew they were the ends of a building, possibly an aerodrome. And then he remembered that Elk had told him of the chemical factory. Probably this was the place, and he drove with greater caution. He had turned the bend, when, ahead of him, he saw three red lights stretched across the road, and in the light of the head-lamps stood a policeman. He slowed the machine and stopped within a few yards of the officer.
“You can’t go this way, sir. The road’s up.”
“How long has it been up?” asked Dick.
“It’s been blown up, sir, about twenty minutes ago,” was the reply. “There’s a side road a mile back, which will bring you to the other side of the railway lines. You can back in here.” He indicated a gateway evidently leading to the factory. Dick pulled back his lever to the reverse, and sent the Rolls spinning backward into the opening. His hand was reaching to change the direction, when the policeman, who had walked to the side of the car, struck at him.
Gordon’s head was bent. He was incapable of resistance. Only the helmet he wore saved him from death. He saw nothing, only suddenly the world went black. Scarcely had the blow been struck when half-a-dozen men came from the shadows. Somebody jumped into the driver’s seat, and, flinging out the limp figure of its owner, brought the car still further backward, and switched off the lights. Another of the party removed the red lamps. The policeman bent over the prostrate figure of Dick Gordon.
“I thought I’d settled him,” he said, disappointed.
“Well, settle him now,” said somebody in the darkness, but evidently the assailant changed his mind.
“Hagn will want him,” he said. “Lift him up.”