"Damn the road!" said the Right Hon. Walter Belford.
So, suddenly the powerful machine, spurning the solid earth like some huge, infuriated brute, leapt sideways, two tyres thrashing empty air, and went howling through an arch of verdure, between hedges which seemed to shrink to right and left from its devastating course.
The man was understood to say something about "Overweighted on her head."
"Scissors!" muttered Inspector Sheffield, wedging his bulk firmly against the front window and clutching at anything that offered. "I hope there are no police traps on this road!"
"He delayed for something!" yelled Belford through trumpeted hands. "We shall catch him by Grimsdyke Farm!"
Sheffield wondered what that vastly daring man had delayed for. Belford, with the fact of the missing photograph fresh in his mind, thought he knew.
The old Norman church tower came rushing now to meet them; looked down upon them, each venerable, lichened stone a mockery of this snorting, ephemeral thing of the Speed Age; and dropped behind to join the other vague memories which represented six miles of Sussex.
"Straight ahead now! Grimsdyke!"
Down swept the white road into a great bowl. Down shrieked the quivering limousine, and Inspector Sheffield crouched back with an uncomfortable sinking in the pit of the stomach, such as he had not known since he had adventured his weighty person on a "joy-ride" at an exhibition.
From the time they had left Womsley Old Place the speed had been consistently high, but now it rose to something enormous; increasing with every ten yards of the slope, it became terrific. The bottom was reached, and the climb began; but for some time little diminution was perceptible in their headlong progress. Then it began to tell, and presently they were mounting the long acclivity at what seemed a tortoise pace after the breathless drop into the valley.