CHAPTER XXVII
A Journey by Night
For the first few miles, while they were still in the traffic, Prenderby contented himself with keeping the disguised Rolls in sight. It would be absurd, he realized, to overtake them while still in London, since they were acting in an unofficial capacity and he was particularly anxious not to arouse the suspicions of the occupants of the car in front of them.
He went warily, therefore, contriving always to keep a fair amount of traffic between them.
Martin was exultant. He was convinced by his own theory, and was certain that the last act of the Black Dudley mystery was about to take place.
Prenderby was too much absorbed by the details of the chase to give any adequate thought to the ultimate result.
Abbershaw alone was dubious. This, like everything else connected with the whole extraordinary business, appalled him by its amazing informality. He could not rid his mind of the thought that it was all terribly illegal – and besides that, at the back of his mind, there was always that other question, that problem which had caused him so many sleepless nights since his return to London. He hoped Martin was right in his theory, but he was sufficiently alarmed by his own secret thought to wish not to put Martin’s idea to the test. He wanted to think Martin was right, to find out nothing that would make him look elsewhere for the murderer.
As they escaped from the tramway lines and came out into that waste of little new houses which separates the city from the fields, they and the grotesque old car in front were practically alone on the wide ill-lighted roads.
It was growing cold and there was a suggestion of a ground mist so that the car in front looked like a dim ghost returned from the early days of motoring.
As the last of the houses vanished and they settled down into that long straight strip of road through the forest, Prenderby spoke:
‘How about now?’ he said. ‘Shall I open out?’