"I went to the door and looked around," said Mr. Dashwood, "and then I saw, far away on the road, the idiot chap that had taken my letter. He must have come to the cottage looking after more sixpences and let Giveen loose. It was now getting on for five, and the dusk was closing in. I rushed to the car, got her out of the shed, and started off on the London road. You see, I knew he hadn't taken the Southend road, or I'd have met him, and there was nowhere else for him to go, unless he'd taken to the marshes, or gone into the sea.
"I turned the car so sharp from the by-road into the London road that I nearly upset her, and then I let her loose. I had a chapter of accidents, for my hat blew off, and I had to stop and get it. Three children were making mud-pies in the middle of the way right before a cottage, and I as nearly as possible made hash of them. A fellow left the cottage and chivied me half a mile, and took a short cut where the road bent like a hairpin, and as nearly as possible nailed me. He wanted to get my number, I suppose—but he didn't.
"Then I remembered that I ought to have my lamps lit," continued Mr. Dashwood. "It was getting on for an hour after sundown, and those police on the country roads don't mind swearing to ten minutes. I wouldn't have minded if it had been an ordinary affair, but it wasn't by any means, and I didn't want to be summoned or else I couldn't swear an alibi if Giveen took an action against me for kidnapping him. So I stopped the car and got down and lit the lamps."
Mr. Dashwood paused.
"Yes," said his listeners.
"Only for that piece of confoundedly foolish carefulness, I'd have collared Giveen."
Mr. French swallowed hastily, as if he were swallowing down something unpleasant, then: "Go on," he said.
"Think of it!" said Mr. Dashwood. "I've always taken chances and come out all right, and the first time I'm careful there I go and spoil everything. Isn't it enough to make a fellow cuss?"
"It is," said French, "and it's just the same way with me. But go on."