Anyone who is acquainted with the village of Polperro knows the stone jetty which runs parallel with the horizon line of the sea. In length it is perhaps eighty or a hundred yards. At its Western end it turns at right angles past a terrace of old houses whose foundations are washed by the tide. Barraclough had almost arrived at this point when two men turned the corner and came toward him. One was a presentable enough fellow, but his companion was a person of low class. They were obviously in the heart of an altercation for the words, "You fill yourself up with beer like a blasted barrel," preceded their appearance.

Now there was one thing Barraclough never forgot—a man's voice—and as the words came to his ears he stopped dead. The moment of mutual recognition was almost instantaneous, but Barraclough had precisely one second's start to recover from his surprise. Behind him was the jetty surrounded by the sea, and the narrow passage in front was blocked by enemies.

Harrison Smith wasted a fraction of time crying out the name "Barraclough!" Dirk fell back a pace fumbling for the pocket in which he kept his "Mascot." It was a fatal mistake. Running down the length of the jetty between the two men was a fisherman's net, and as Harrison Smith sprang toward him pistol in hand, Barraclough ducked, seized the net and raised it in the air.

It was the barest fluke that the manoeuvre should have worked so well. Harrison Smith stumbled heavily, grabbed at Dirk and missed him. Barraclough's foot just above his waist line destroyed the last of his equilibrium and over the edge he went into the shallow water below. Unquestionably the beer was responsible for Dirk's failure to win the engagement. His quarry was before him in an open position. He should have used his Mascot and used it hard. It was sheer criminal stupidity to have looked over the edge at his fallen commander. Maybe the angry scarlet of Dirk's complexion provoked Barraclough's attack and before the poor man had recovered from his surprise a heavy lobster pot came smashing down over his face with agonising force, the splintering basket-work playing havoc with his features. Then he, too, experienced the unique sensation of gliding downward through space, a delight somewhat marred by the rudeness of its finish.

Barraclough did not stay to behold the result of his offensive, but picked up his heels and ran. Just beyond the open fish market he saw a neglected Ford car and hesitated an instant to debate whether or no he should appropriate it. At the time he did not connect it with the two men wallowing in harbour waters. Had he done so he would certainly have driven it over the edge of the quay into the mud. His own car was waiting less than a quarter of a mile away—an Hispano Suisa built for speed—and the sense of speed ran through his own veins. As he raced up the narrow, twisting street the good wives of the village turned on their doorsteps, open mouthed, to watch him pass. He scarcely bothered to glance over his shoulder satisfied that he had gained an easy five minutes' start. Coming abreast of the three cottages he vaulted the stock yard wall, threw open a gate and made for the stable door fumbling in his pocket for the key of the padlock.

And suddenly an oath broke from his lips crisp, concise, and covering. The first trick had been scored by him but undoubtedly Harrison Smith had won the second. The blocked up keyhole told its own tale. He knew the door very well and it would be half an hour's work to break it down, also he knew the padlock having bought it himself. The Hispano Suisa would have to be abandoned.

He did not waste time cursing, but instead leapt the shale wall and took to the fields. A little footpath lay among the trees at the meadow end and Anthony Barraclough made for it with all possible dispatch jumping a brook and forcing his way through a fringe of thorn and bramble. There had been no rain for some weeks and the going was dry, a circumstance he noted with satisfaction, for your average Cornish footpath is as much a waterway as a thoroughfare for pedestrians. It was half a mile to his destination, a spot where the path converged with the high road and as he ran, Barraclough covered his face with his hand to avoid the swinging branches. A gap in the trees gave a view of the village and as he flashed across it increasing speed to avoid the risk of being seen he had a momentary glimpse of a Ford car with two men in it stopping at the gate he had recently opened.

"How in blazes they found out beats me," he gasped.

A sickening fear assailed him that his second line of escape might also have been blocked and, at the thought, he put out every ounce of speed he possessed. It was better to know the worst at once. The path widened out into a cart track and through an aisle of trees the white patch of the high road came into view.

A casual passer-by would never have noticed the low built pigsty that butted on to the hedge, its roof and sides being almost completely masked with brushwood and bramble vine.

Barraclough could not resist an exclamation of joy as he noted that the big piles of carelessly thrown kindlings were apparently untouched. He kicked away great bundles of them with his foot, produced a key and opened a small solid door. The relief was almost unbearable, but he did not linger to offer up prayers of thanksgiving.

The motor bicycle flashed bravely as he dragged it out into the sun, turned on the petrol and set the controls. He shoved the gear lever into second, lifted the exhaust and pushed, and the willing little twin fired its first spluttering salvo as he bumped out of the rutted lane into the main road.

Concentration on the single object of getting away had dulled his ears to other sounds, for normally he could not have failed to hear the chuff-chuff of the approaching Ford. As he swung into the saddle he saw it out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The vision of two men—an excited yell and an oath—they were almost on top of him when the twin took a healthy dose of the mixture and got away. Another second and they would have ridden him down. Barraclough swerved to the left to cut a corner and opened up. Harrison Smith did likewise, choking his engine with too wide a throttle and losing a dozen yards in half that number of seconds.

"Shoot, blast you! Shoot, you blasted fool!" he roared at Dirk.

Barraclough heard the order and swept over to the right to disturb the aim as a couple of leaden hornets buzzed angrily past his ear striking the macadam a hundred yards ahead and whining away into the distance.

Freddie Dirk's execution with an automatic was below the quality of his Mascot work. He cursed fluently as the shots flew wide and tried to steady his aim by resting the Colt on the iron crosspiece of the wind screen.

"Take the wheel—take the wheel, damn you," cried Harrison Smith, snatching at the pistol with his left hand. "You can't shoot that way."

Somehow they contrived to change places. A sharp rise in the ground had perceptibly slackened the speed of Barraclough's mount and he reduced his lead still further by hanging on to the top gear a couple of seconds too long. The Ford, on the other hand, was beginning to improve and leapt at the hill eagerly. No more than fifty yards separated pursued from pursuer.

Harrison Smith sat on the back of the driving seat and bided his time. A glance ahead showed him the road winding up interminably at the very incline at which a Ford car develops its greatest efficiency and goes sailing past nearly everything else on the road.

"Got him," he said, "got him cold."

This comforting reflection awoke in his breast a sporting fancy. After all it was more fun to shoot a man than to ride him down.

The little twin in front was labouring bravely at the hill, but its muffled exhaust was pleading unmistakably for still another change down. Barraclough knew very well that were he to accept this invitation he would be lost. The only hope was to keep in second and pray hard that the engine wouldn't conk out. A glance over his shoulder revealed the Ford bounding up the hill toward him. Then it was Harrison Smith fired. Barraclough saw the flash out of the tail of his eye and simultaneously his motor cycle seemed to leap forward with a noisy roar. The bullet had struck the exhaust pipe cutting it clear of the silencer and making him a gift of five miles an hour. A new life seemed to run through the veins of the machine and the hill flattened out before him like a level track. As he realised the charity of Fate, Barraclough lifted a gladsome "Yoicks" and waved his right arm above his head. Again the pistol cracked and a red hot knitting needle seemed to pass through the palm of his hand. As he brought it back to the handle bar he saw a pale blue circle between his first and second finger bubble into scarlet and black.

"You scum, you dirty scum," he cried, "but it'll take more than a bullet through the hand to bring down my flag."

He jerked the gear lever back into top and shot full bore at the down grade before him. As the Ford car breasted the top of the hill its passengers were rewarded by the sight of a tiny speck of dust tearing along a ribbon of white in the valley below.