As they charged into the street, they heard behind them a wild feminine shriek, then a crash of pottery and glass, then silence, and an instant later the Ship Inn was buried in darkness.
“That will hold Stiffkey for a while!” said Ford. “Now, back to the car.”
But between them and the car loomed suddenly a tall and impressive figure. His helmet and his measured tread upon the deserted cobble-stones proclaimed his calling.
“The constable!” whispered Herbert. “He must see us, but he mustn't speak to us.”
For a moment the three men showed themselves in the middle of the street, and then, as though at sight of the policeman they had taken alarm, disappeared through an opening between two houses. Five minutes later a motor-car, with its canvas top concealing its occupants, rode slowly into Stiffkey's main street and halted before the constable. The driver of the car wore a leather skull-cap and goggles. From his neck to his heels he was covered by a raincoat.
“Mr. Policeman,” he began; “when I turned in here three soldiers stepped in front of my car and pointed rifles at me. Then they ran off toward the beach. What's the idea—manoeuvres? Because, they've no right to—”
“Yes, sir,” the policeman assured him promptly; “I saw them. It's manoeuvres, sir. Territorials.”
“They didn't look like Territorials,” objected the chauffeur. “They looked like Germans.”
Protected by the deepening dusk, the constable made no effort to conceal a grin.
“Just Territorials, sir,” he protested soothingly; “skylarking maybe, but meaning no harm. Still, I'll have a look round, and warn 'em.”