A rending crash came—a hoarse scream—and the big limousine toppled over into the ditch.
Harley felt himself hurled through space.
“Shall I follow on to Lower Claybury, sir?” asked Inspector Wessex, excitedly.
Phil Abingdon’s message had come through nearly an hour before, and a party had been despatched in accordance with Brinn’s instructions. Wessex had returned to New Scotland Yard too late to take charge, and now, before the Assistant Commissioner had time to reply, a ‘phone buzzed.
“Yes?” said the Assistant Commissioner, taking up one of the several instruments: “What!”
Even this great man, so justly celebrated for his placid demeanour, was unable to conceal his amazement.
“Yes,” he added. “Let him come up!” He replaced the receiver and turning to Wessex: “Mr. Nicol Brinn is here!” he informed him.
“What’s that!” cried the inspector, quite startled out of his usual deferential manner.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Came a rap at the door.
“Come in,” said the Assistant Commissioner.