“And what is to prevent those wretches from coming to and escaping in the interval?” I asked dryly.
“True,” Tish agreed. “Perhaps I would better go back and hit them again. But that would take time also.”
In the end we compromised on Tish’s original plan and set out once more. The trip back across the links was uneventful, save that on the eighth green the horse got a foot into the hole and was only extricated with the cup still clinging to his foot.
We had no can opener along, and it is quite possible that the ring of the tin later on on the macadam road led to our undoing. For we had no sooner turned away from the town toward the Ostermaier’s cottage on the beach than a policeman leaped out of the bushes and, catching the animal by the bridle, turned a lantern on us.
“Hey, Murphy!” he called. “Here they are! I’ve got ’em! Hands up, there!”
“Stand back!” said Tish in a peremptory voice. “We are late enough already.”
“Late!” said the policeman, pointing a revolver at us. “Well, time won’t make much difference to you from now on—not where you’re going. You won’t ever need to hurry again.”
“But I must deliver this treasure. After that I’ll explain everything.”
“You bet you’ll deliver it, and right here and now. And your weapons too.”
“Aggie, give up your clothespin,” said Tish in a resigned voice. “These yokels apparently think us guilty of something or other, but my conscience is clear. If you want the really guilty parties,” she told the policeman, “go back to the sand pit by the tenth hole and you will find them.”