The inspector had no time to admire his chief's forethought. The hunted car was now running on a line which would bring it between the old wreck and the edge of the incoming tide; and on the hard sands it was making tremendous speed. Armadale, leaning forward in the excitement of the chase, saw the long cones of its headlights illuminate the hull of the wreck for a moment; then the beams swung up into the air; the car seemed to halt for an instant, and then rolled over sideways along the sands. And then it vanished as though the ground had swallowed it. “The quicksand!” ejaculated Armadale, as he realised what had happened. Sir Clinton shut the throttle and let his car slow down. “Hit some rock projecting slightly from the sand, I expect,” he commented. “Probably the front axle or the steering-gear went, and he came to smash. Well, that's one of 'em gone.” He chose a place carefully and turned his own car on to the sands, running down to near the wreck. “Don't go too near,” he advised. “One can't be sure of the danger-zone.” They got out and went down to the scene of the disaster. A glance at the car-tracks showed the correctness of Sir Clinton's guess. The hunted car had struck a low projecting rock with its near front wheel; and from that point the wheel-marks were replaced by the trace of the whole vehicle, overturned and sliding along the beach. The trail ended abruptly; and where the car had sunk they saw an area of repulsive black mud. “Ugh!” said the inspector, examining it with disgust. “Fancy going down into that stuff and feeling it getting into your eyes and mouth. And then choking in that slime! It gives me the creeps to think of it.” He shuddered at the picture conjured up by what he saw before him. “Do you think there's any chance of recovering the body?” he inquired after a moment or two. Sir Clinton shook his head. “I doubt it. You'll need to try, of course; best do it with grappling-irons from a boat, I suppose. But I shouldn't think you're likely to succeed. It doesn't matter much, anyhow. He's got his deserts. Now for the other man. Come along!” They went back to the car and got aboard. Sir Clinton seemed to have decided on his next move, for he drove along the sands in the direction of the hotel. Rather to the inspector's surprise, they did not turn off on to the road at Neptune's Seat, but went still farther along the shore, making for the headland on which the Blowhole was situated.