In dust, in gasoline fumes, in an endless procession of cars, Mr.
Donalds proceeded on his way. They stopped for gasoline, they stopped
while Wickey investigated a knock in the engine, they stopped again and
again because the procession stopped. Signs told them to “go slow,” and
they went slow, until Mr. Donalds was on the verge of frenzy.
He tried to be calm. He reminded himself that he was a relentless human
bloodhound, never to be eluded, and that no matter where the criminals
went, were it to the very ends of the earth, they could not escape him.
Even these thoughts could not appease him. He was hungry, he was
extremely thirsty, and he was displeased with his red morocco slippers.
It is fortunate that he did not know how streaked with dust and
perspiration his face was, how rumpled his stubby hair. As it was, when
he caught any one staring at him, he believed it was because of the
ruthless determination of his expression.
At last Wickey turned off the Post Road and stopped halfway down a lane,
before a little old-fashioned cottage which bore this sign: