“Plenty of petrol?” Narkom faced round as he spoke and looked at Lennard.
“Plenty, sir.”
“All right—beat it! The boat sails from Dover at eleven. I’ve got to catch it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. But you could wire down and have her held over till we get there, Superintendent.”
“Not for the world! She must sail on time; I must get aboard without being noticed—without some persons I’m following having the least cause for suspicion. Beat that train—do you hear me?—beat it! I want to get there and get aboard that boat before the others arrive. Do you want any further incentive than that? If so, here it is for you: Mr. Cleek’s in Paris! Mr. Cleek’s in danger!”
“Mr. Cleek? God’s truth! Hop in sir, hop in! I’ll have you there ahead of that train if I dash down the Admiralty Pier in flames from front to rear. Just let me get to the open road, sir, and I’ll show you something to make you sit up.”
He did. Once out of the track of all traffic, and with the lights of the city well at his back, he strapped his goggles tight, jerked his cap down to his eyebrows, and leaned over the wheel.
“For Mr. Cleek—do you hear?” he said, addressing the car as if it were a human being. “Now, then, show what you’re made of! There! Take your head! Now go, you vixen! GO!”
There was a sudden roar, a sudden leap; then the car shot forward as though all the gales of all the universe were sweeping it on, and the wild race to the coast began.
Narkom jerked down the blinds, turned on the light, and flung open the locker, as they pounded on.