Red In The Morning by Dornford Yates Read Free Book Online Page A

a mile and a half. You see, we wanted to know if Gedge turned at Poule… We could, of course, leave him to Carson – Carson was as ‘safe as a house’, and Bell would be sound by now. But we naturally wished to deal with the matter ourselves.
    “He’ll turn at Poule,” I said. “If they could see him, it follows that he could see them. And now that he thinks he’s lost them, he’ll turn at once.”
    Mansel said nothing. But he drove as even that day he had never driven before. And that noble car responded – like the thoroughbred that she was. Mercifully, the road was open…
    Poule is a very long village, as villages go; and the main road runs straight through it, as a river between its banks. The moment I saw it, I remembered that the crossroads of which I have spoken lay right at its farther end.
    It was half a mile off when I sighted the streak of grey which it made. With the speed of a Disney drawing, the streak took shape. Always increasing in stature, I watched Poule tear towards us, exactly as though it belonged to some motion picture and we to the audience.
    “I can see two cars,” I said. “No – three. One’s coming our way. I think one’s standing still. There’s a fourth…and a fifth – right ahead. And now a bus coming – Oh, blast his neck, he’s right in my line of view… That’s better, but where’s the fifth? By God, he’s turned off! He must have – the road’s dead straight.”
    Ahead of us people were straggling, and standing and talking, too. Mansel sounded his high-pitched horn – and kept the button pressed down. Discretion beat Assertion – the figures fled.
    “Did he turn left?” said Mansel.
    “I couldn’t say. As you turn, I’ll look to the right. But I’ll swear it was he that turned: there’s nothing ahead.”
    This was a fact; and we could see the road for a third of a mile.
    As we swept past the waiting bus, Mansel lifted his foot and clapped on his brakes.
    A volley of indignation just flicked my ears, as a flash of summer lightning will flick the sight.
    I slewed myself round in my seat, and as Mansel swung to the left, I looked behind – to see some three hundred yards of an empty road.
    “Go on,” I said. “We must risk it. If they’re not in view in two minutes, we must come back.”
    Our new road curled like a serpent, defying a very high speed. But it ran down into a valley that opened out to the west, and, knowing the way of the country hereabouts, I was ready to swear that it climbed up out of the valley upon the opposite side. I tried my best to pick up the line that it took.
    And then, below where I was looking, the tail of my eye reported the tiniest flash. The screen of a car that was moving had rendered the brilliant light of the sinking sun.
    “They’re down there,” I said somehow. “God send it’s Gedge.”
    “Amen,” breathed Mansel. “And now we’ve got to be careful: but, first of all, we must see their number plate.”
    “Stop,” I cried. “There’s their road. For God’s sake, give me the glasses – I daren’t look away.”
    It was but a glimpse of the road some twenty yards of its length: to anyone where we were, anything moving upon it would be completely exposed: but it lay too far away for the naked eye to determine the make of a car. I should not, of course, be able to see the number plates; but, if it was a Lowland…
    Mansel thrust binoculars into my hand…
    He need not have hurried to do so: thirty seconds dragged by, while we listened to the drone of the engine, not turning as fast as it could.
    “I think,” breathed Mansel, “I think that’s a Lowland’s note.”
    With his words, a Lowland slid into and out of my view.
    “Good for you,” said I, and put the binoculars down.
    As he let in his clutch –
    “We must close up a bit,” said Mansel. “We mustn’t lose them now.”
    (Here, perhaps, I should say that had the rogues chosen to do as we had done, that is to say, to look across the valley,