"Their next movements much interested me. The commander of the expedition began to scout along the bench, and soon discovered my explosive--by the way, I proposed to call it Hittite. He was a cool card. He first burnt a little: ’Bien!’ said he. Then he exploded a little: ’Bien!’ again. Then he scooped the whole lot into a brown leather bag, just as it was, and made off, lifting his hat very politely as he went out. He had some trouble in getting his motor-cycle to fire----" "They came on motor-cycles? I saw two crossing the railway at Snipeshill as I went. Look here, Pickles, this is serious, isn’t it?" "Well, of course any fool could make Hittite after a reputable chemist has analysed my stuff. I shall have to start again, I suppose." "Great Scott! How can you take it so coolly? The ruffians have got to be caught. Can you describe them?" "Luckily, they allowed me the use of my eyes, though I’ve heard of speaking eyes, haven’t you? They were all foreigners. The commander was a big fellow, bald as an egg, with a natty little moustache, very urbane, well educated, to judge by his accent, though you can never tell with these foreigners. The others were bearded--quite uninteresting--chauffeurs or mechanics--men of that stamp. Their boss was a personality." "He spoke French?" "Yes. You brought that picric acid, Teddy?" "It’s in the house. By the way, they gagged Mrs. Jones too." "Not with a newspaper, I hope. I’m afraid the poor old thing will give me notice. We had better go and console her." They mounted on the bench, clambered thence through the skylight, and slid to the ground. "Look here, Pickles," said Burton, as they went towards the house, "I’m going after those fellows. Being foreigners they are almost sure to have made for the Continent at once. I’ll run down to the road and examine the tracks of their cycles; you’ve got an ABC in the house?" "It is possible." "Well, hunt it out and look up the boats for Calais. How long have they been gone?" "Perhaps three-quarters of an hour." "A dashed good start!" exclaimed Burton. "We’ll save time if you bring the ABC down to the creek. Buck up, old chap; no wool-gathering now, for goodness’ sake." They parted. A brief examination of the tracks assured Burton that the cyclists had continued their journey eastward. They would probably run into the highroad to Dover somewhere about Norton Ash. Returning to the creek he was met by Micklewright with the buff-coloured timetable. Micklewright was limping a little. "There’s no Calais boat at this time of day," he said. "Did you try Folkestone?" "It didn’t occur to me." Burton took the time-table from him and turned over the pages rapidly.