If, however, Humphreys and his wife were there, but alone, then he was to question them, and try to assure himself whether their flight from Brush Hill was in any way connected with Miss Barton’s disappearance. If they had been in the village and had left, then every possible step was to be taken at once to trace and follow them. The weather was still fine, calm, and not too hot, and Bobby felt that for once he was in luck, and that after all there might just possibly be something to be said for police work when it gave you the chance of a long leisurely ride in the sweet country air through some of the loveliest scenery in the land.’ But Bobby was young, and no exception to the general rule that a motor-cycle, most modern of modernities, wakens instantly all that is most primitive, violent, and barbaric in a young man’s nature, so that just as the first youth on the first horse probably thought of nothing but galloping, galloping, so the last boy on the last new motor-cycle certainly thinks of nothing but speeding, speeding, speeding.
