"They came on motor-cycles? I saw two crossing the railway at Snipeshill as I went. Look here, Pickles, this is serious, isn't it?"
"Well, of course any fool could make Hittite after a reputable chemist has analysed my stuff. I shall have to start again, I suppose."
"Great Scott! How can you take it so coolly? The ruffians have got to be caught. Can you describe them?"
"Luckily, they allowed me the use of my eyes, though I've heard of speaking eyes, haven't you? They were all foreigners. The commander was a big fellow, bald as an egg, with a natty little moustache, very urbane, well educated, to judge by his accent, though you can never tell with these foreigners. The others were bearded--quite uninteresting--chauffeurs or mechanics--men of that stamp. Their boss was a personality."
"He spoke French?"
"Yes. You brought that picric acid, Teddy?"
"It's in the house. By the way, they gagged Mrs. Jones too."
"Not with a newspaper, I hope. I'm afraid the poor old thing will give me notice. We had better go and console her."
They mounted on the bench, clambered thence through the skylight, and slid to the ground.
"Look here, Pickles," said Burton, as they went towards the house, "I'm going after those fellows. Being foreigners they are almost sure to have made for the Continent at once. I'll run down to the road and examine the tracks of their cycles; you've got an ABC in the house?"