“Sergeant Farrelly left this at a quarter past twelve,” said Miss Blow; “and he’s not back yet.”
“It’s a long road,” said Jimmy, “longer maybe than you’d think.”
“It’s eight miles.”
“And eight back along with that.”
“That only makes sixteen,” said Miss Farquharson, who shared her nephew’s fondness for intricate calculations.
“So they ought to be here by this time,” said Miss Blow.
“It could be,” said Jimmy, “that they might be a long time looking for the gentleman they’re after before they’d find him. A fellow like that would be as cunning as an old fox, hiding himself when he saw the police after him.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Dick, “I do hope nothing has happened to them. It would be too terrible.”
“The sergeant,” said Jimmy, “is a heavy man. He wouldn’t be as quick as another at doing a run on a bicycle.”
“Still,” said Miss Blow, “he’s had four hours and it’s only sixteen miles.”