"You're right," I agreed. "You'd hardly believe it," I added, "but I can
tell from the feel of her that some stranger's been driving."

"I can believe it. After all, a car's just like a horse."

As she spoke, we sped into the market square of Bloodstock. The police
station stood in Love Lane, a couple of streets away.

Here a disappointment was in store. The sole representative of the Law
was a station sergeant in his shirt-sleeves and a state of profuse
perspiration. Between his lips was a penholder, and he held a telephone
receiver to his left ear. In an adjoining room the bell of another
telephone was ringing violently in long regular spasms, while, somewhere
quite close, a dog was giving ceaseless vent to those short sharp barks
which denote impatience of detention.

A sudden elevation of the sergeant's eyebrows invited me to state my
business, but before I had spoken two sentences he shifted the penholder
from his mouth and shook his head.

"'Fraid I can't 'elp you at the moment, sir. That's the third car what's
been stole in this distric' this mornin'. There's a 'ole gang of 'em
about. Every one excep' me's out after 'em now. 'Eaven knows when
they'll come in. An' there's that other telephone goin' like mad, an'
the Chief Constable's lef' his bull-dawg tied up there, an' 'e won't let
me within six foot of it." He turned to blare into the mouthpiece.
"'Ullo! 'Oo _are_ you? 'Oo _are_ you? Wot! Oh, I can't bear it. 'Ere,
for 'Eaven's sake, 'old the line." He set down the receiver, shook the
sweat out of his eyes, and sank on to a stool. "Another blinkin' car