Harry's head swam with the
problem that presented itself. And then, to make it worse, there was that
remark Graves had made. He had said Harry would find it hard to explain
where he had been. How did he know where they had been? Why should he think
it would be hard for them to explain their actions?
"There isn't any answer," he said to himself. "And, if there was, I'm a
juggins to be trying to find it now. I'd better keep my mind on this old
machine, or it will ditch me! I know what I've got to do, anyhow, even if I
don't know why."
Mile after mile he rode, getting the very best speed he could out of the
machine. Somewhere ahead of him, he was sure, riding back toward London,
was Graves. In this wild pursuit he was taking chances, of course. Graves
might have turned off the road almost anywhere. But if he had done that,
there was nothing to be done about it; that much was certain. He could only
keep on with the pursuit, hoping that his quarry was following the straight
road toward London. And, to be sure, there was every reason for him to
hope just that.
By this time it was very late. No one was abroad; the countryside was
asleep. Once or twice he did find someone in the streets of a village as he
swept through; then he stopped, and asked if a man on another motorcycle
had passed ahead of him.
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