Lighting the lamps, he bade
his silent guest get up beside him, and so they started on their
fateful journey, taking the road past the spot where the sailor had
been murdered, and dashing down the long hill at fearful speed toward
London.
'Why do you take this direction?' asked Sir George. 'Wouldn't it be
more advisable to go further into the country?'
Doyle laughed harshly.
'Haven't you a place on Wimbledon Common? Why not bury him in your
garden?'
'Merciful motors!' cried the horrified man. 'How can you propose such
a thing? Talking of gardens, why not have buried him in your own,
which was infinitely safer than going forward at this pace.'
'Have no fear,' said Doyle reassuringly, 'we shall find him a suitable
sepulchre without disturbing either of our gardens. I'll be in the
centre of London within two hours.'
Sir George stared in affright at the demon driver. The man had
evidently gone mad. To London, of all places in the world. Surely that
was the one spot on earth to avoid.
'Stop the motor and let me off,' he cried. 'I'm going to wake up the
nearest magistrate and confess.'
'You'll do nothing of the sort,' said Doyle. 'Don't you see that no
person on earth would suspect two criminals of making for London when
they have the whole country before them? Haven't you read my stories?
The moment a man commits a crime he tries to get as far away from
London as possible.
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