“How is that? Can’t start? What’s to keep her?” Pawlinson’s was intense as he fired the questions.
“Why, it happens that the supply tank at the club float where she usually fills sprang a leak early in the day, and the consignment of reserve barrels of ‘gas’ can’t reach her till eight-fifteen at the earliest.”
“Good!” “Fine!” fairly chortled Pawlinson, rubbing his hands together delightedly. “No, you’re right, Hallins, she’ll not start without gasoline, and plenty of it. She never does. She uses her engine a lot.”
Then his voice whirled from gloating to practicality; then to a bit of uneasiness as he glanced over his shoulder out of a window where the sky was dimming to dusk. “What time is it now?”
Hallins glanced at his watch.
“Five to seven.”
“As late as that?” cried Pawlinson. “I can’t believe it. But here, man, we’ve still time to make it. I want ten of your best men, which, with myself and Grey here, will make twelve. And I want the police launch—she’s fast, isn’t she?”
“The police launch?” cried the sergeant bewilderedly.
“Why, yes, of course! You have such an article, haven’t you? Come, come, man, I’m in no mood for delay!”
“But your later wire!” blurted out Hallins.