“Sure they're going this way, sir?” Armadale asked.
“No, just taking a chance. They'll want to get clear of the car as soon as possible, I expect, since it's recognisable now that we've got the number. I may be all wrong, of course.”
The big car tore on in the moonlight, and the speed left the inspector little inclination for talk. He gasped once or twice as they swung round corners, and his main feeling was one of thankfulness that at that hour of the night they were not likely to meet anything on the road. One last turn, which made Armadale and the constable grip frenziedly at the nearest hand-hold, and they came out on the edge of the bay.
“Look!” the inspector ejaculated. “You've pulled them in, sir.”
Not three hundred yards ahead, the hunted car appeared in the moonlight, travelling much slower than Armadale had expected, but apparently gaining speed as it ran.
“They've parted company,” Sir Clinton snapped. “The car's slowed down to let one man off. There's only the driver on board now.”
Suddenly, at a point where the road ran level with the beach, their quarry left the highway and plunged down on to the sands.
“He's trying to gain something by cutting straight across the beach, sir, instead of following the curve of the road.”
Armadale, expecting Sir Clinton to do the same, gripped the side of the car in anticipation of the shock when they left the road; but the chief constable held to the highway.
“He's making for Flatt's cottage, to get the boat and leave us standing,” he said. “He'll get a surprise when he finds the oars gone.”