"It's the grey car," he said. "Why didn't they take the guv'nor's?"
"Open the door!" cried Sheffield impatiently. "Is the key there?"
"Yes," was the reply; "here we are!" And the door was opened.
Sheffield started down the stairs with noisy clatter, and, the chauffeur a good second, raced through the rooms below and out into the yard.
"Mr. Belford! Mr. Belford!" he cried.
But no answer came, only a whisper from the coppice, followed by the squeak of the crazy shutter.
They ran out to where they had left Belford on guard over the grey car; but no sign of him remained, nor evidence of a struggle. The hum of the retreating motor grew faint in the distance.
"Ah!" cried Sheffield, and started running towards Mr. Belford's limousine on the edge of the coppice. "Quick! don't you see? He's kidnapped! In you go! This just about sees me out at Scotland Yard if we don't overtake them!"
"They've gone back the way we've just come!" said the chauffeur, hurling himself on board. "I can't make out where they're going—and I can't make out why they took the worst car! It's an old crock, hired from Lewes. We can run it down inside five minutes!"
"Thank God for that!" said Sheffield, as, for the second time that night, he set out across moonlit Sussex on the front of the big car, in pursuit of the most elusive man who ever had baffled the Criminal Investigation Department.