Visions of degradation to the ranks from which he so laboriously had risen occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else; for to have allowed the notorious Séverac Bablon to kidnap the Home Secretary under his very eyes was a blunder which he knew full well could not be condoned.
Even the breathless drop into the great bowl on the Downs did not serve to dispel his gloomy dreams. Then:
"There they are! And, as I live, making straight for Womsley!" cried the chauffeur.
Sheffield stood up unsteadily on his insecure perch, and there was the mysterious grey car, which now was become a veritable nightmare, mounting the hill in front.
One minute passed, and Sheffield was straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the occupants. But no one was visible. Two minutes passed, and the inspector began to think that his eyesight was failing, or that a worse thing portended. For, as far as he could make out, only one man occupied the car—the man who drove her!
"What does it mean?" muttered the detective, clutching at the shoulder of the chauffeur to support himself. "It must be Séverac Bablon! But—where's Mr. Belford?"
Three minutes passed, and the brilliant moonlight set at rest all doubts respecting the identity of the man who drove the car.
His silvern hair flowed out, gleaming on his shoulders, as he bent forward over the driving-wheel.
It was the Right Hon. Walter Belford!
"What in the name of murder does it mean?" cried Sheffield. "Has he gone mad? Mr. Belford! Mr. Belford! Hoy! ... Hoy! ... hoy! Mr. Belford!"