Bobby turned round and pointed in the direction from which he had come. “He was making off along the edge of a field,” he said. “I saw him not—oh, not five minutes ago. Mile, or a bit more, away from here. Running he was. Along a hedge to the right—left I mean—near a chestnut plantation.”
“That’s ’im all right, Jim. Where did you say, sir?”
Bobby’s brilliance increased. “If one of you will sit behind me and the other get into this contraption—bit of a load, but we can manage it—I’ll run you back to the very place. Right away.” And without more ado he set about turning round. “That’s a real help, sir,” said Jim. “Don’t mention it,” said Bobby.
Bobby was now at the top of his form. He loaded them in with helpful words—even the smaller of the two was a tight fit for the side-car and the other sat like a sack on the luggage carrier—he took them back a mile and a half until he found the suitable hedge by the chestnut tree. He unloaded them carefully, received their hearty but hasty thanks with a generous gesture and sent them off at a smart trot across the fields. “He can’t have a mile’s start,” he said. “And he wasn’t going particularly fast. Sort of limping.”
“That’s ’im,” said Jim.
Bobby kissed his hand to their retreating backs. “That’s you,” said Bobby. “God help you both and cleanse your hearts. And now for Sargon.”
He buzzed back to the place where he had left Sargon, turned his machine round again and then looked towards the corner of the wood by the holly clump where the little man ought to have been waiting. But there was no sign of a peeping head. “Queer!” said Bobby, and ran up to the place where he had left Sargon crouching in the ditch. Not a sign was there of him. Bobby looked about him, baffled and frightened. After all, after everything, could things go wrong now?
“Sargon,” he called, and then louder, “Sargon!”
Not a sound, not a rustle came in reply.
“He’s hidden! Can he have crawled away and fainted? Exhausted perhaps!”