Perhaps, after all, the man from the Yard had other plans than the underworld. Perhaps the release had to do with the great war which had finally been brought to an end. It would be easy to escape, for Fay had the lithe, long limbs of the runner.
But he thought better of it and stepped through the tonneau door where MacKeenon had assisted him. The surge, as the car leaped forward and the driver glided through second, third and into fourth speed, was just sufficient to cause him to sit down upon the seat, where the inspector, with solicitude, offered one half of an auto robe whose woolen texture felt like silk to a man who had slept under shoddy for five years.
The mist-shrouded moors were crossed over rumbling bridges of planks or hollow arches of stone. The main highway, which swung from west to east upon the troubled isle, was reached. Into this broad road the driver turned the great car, stepped upon the governor-throttle and opened wide the triple-jetted carburetor.
A hissing of indrawn air sounded. The wind of their swift passage struck back and cut the cuticle of Fay’s white cheeks. They flushed and reddened with the rush of warm blood up through his sagged veins. He felt then the sweet wine of life and living—the clean vision and promise of the open places.
He sat in one position, turning over and over the riddle of his sudden freedom. It was like being reborn—rejuvenated.
MacKeenon had said no word. He crouched like a watchful hound, ready, alert for the first overt act.
Fay had weighed the chances when he had first entered the car. They still held good. The great motor often slowed for traffic—for the tide of war which flowed Londonward, even after the last treaty of peace had been signed.
Lorries, caissons, embarked troops in olive-drab, invalided officers and men strolling through the rare English meadows, all were a maelstrom where freedom from pursuit could be had.
Fay feared no living man or group of men. He had played the underworld game according to his code. It had been a losing one, perhaps; but he had held it down to the last grim brush with the hounds of the law in the Court of Assizes. He had not whimpered. He had not squealed. There was that rat, Dutch Gus, and that pigeon, Nelly Blake, who might have stuck by a pal. They were gone now with their telltale eyes and their overextended sympathies.
Also, for he had played many parts, there was Saidee Isaacs. Where was she now? She had been different. A hell-cat, perhaps, but then Saidee was a man’s girl and a lady. Had she gone up or down during the five years at Dartmoor? Fay rather thought, as he gripped the rare leather of the car’s upholstery, that Saidee would be found in West London. Could she have anything to do with his release?