“What are Morby Fields?” asked Dick, as the car went slowly back the way it had come.
“Morby Fields is a disused quarry. The company went into liquidation some years ago,” replied Bennett.
They passed through Morby at snail pace, stopping at the local policeman’s house for any further news which might have been gleaned in their absence. There was, however, nothing fresh.
“You are perfectly certain that you did not see the motor-cyclist?”
“I am quite certain, sir,” said the man. “The car was as close to me as I am to you. In fact, I had to step to the pavement to prevent myself being splashed with mud; and there was no motor-cyclist. In fact, the impression I had was that the car was empty.”
“Why did you think that?” asked Elk quickly.
“It was riding light, for one thing, and the chauffeur was smoking for another. I always associate a smoking chauffeur with an empty car.”
“Son,” said the admiring Elk, “there are possibilities about you,” and a recruit to Headquarters was noted.
“I’m inclined to agree with that village policeman,” said Dick when they walked back to their machine. “The car was empty when it came through here, and that accounts for the absence of the motor-cyclist. It is between Morby and Wellan that we’ve got to look.”
And now they moved at a walking pace. The brackets that held the head-lamps were wrenched round to throw a light upon the ditch and hedge on either side of the road. They had not gone five hundred yards when Elk roared: