In dust, in gasoline fumes, in an endless procession of cars, Mr. Donalds proceeded on his way. They stopped for gasoline, they stopped while Wickey investigated a knock in the engine, they stopped again[Pg 252] and again because the procession stopped. Signs told them to “go slow,” and they went slow, until Mr. Donalds was on the verge of frenzy.
He tried to be calm. He reminded himself that he was a relentless human bloodhound, never to be eluded, and that no matter where the criminals went, were it to the very ends of the earth, they could not escape him. Even these thoughts could not appease him. He was hungry, he was extremely thirsty, and he was displeased with his red morocco slippers.
It is fortunate that he did not know how streaked with dust and perspiration his face was, how rumpled his stubby hair. As it was, when he caught any one staring at him, he believed it was because of the ruthless determination of his expression.
At last Wickey turned off the Post Road and stopped halfway down a lane, before a little old-fashioned cottage which bore this sign:
YE BETSY BARKER TEA HOUSE
“Here’s where she went,” said Wickey.
Mr. Donalds sprang out, and, bidding the man wait, opened the garden gate and advanced up the path. The cottage door was unlatched, and he entered, to find himself in a dim, cool little room, filled with small tables and high-backed settees.
There was no one else in the room. He had come in so quietly, in his slippers, that no doubt he had not been heard. He waited a moment, and then he rapped vigorously upon one of the tables.
Almost immediately there entered a thin little white-haired woman wearing a chintz apron.
“Tea?” she asked in a little bleating voice.