Every policeman knows that, therefore, two men
coming into London are innocent strangers, according to Scotland
Yard.'
'But then we may be taken up for fast driving, and think of the
terrible burden we carry.'
'We're safe on the country roads, and I'll slow down when we reach the
suburbs.'
It was approaching three o'clock in the morning when a huge motor car
turned out of Trafalgar Square, and went eastward along the Strand.
The northern side of the Strand was up, as it usually is, and the
motor, skilfully driven, glided past the piles of wood-paving blocks,
great sombre kettles holding tar and the general _debris_ of a
re-paving convulsion. Opposite Southampton Street, at the very spot so
graphically illustrated by George C. Haite on the cover of the _Strand
Magazine_, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped his motor. The Strand was
deserted. He threw pick and shovel into the excavation, and curtly
ordered his companion to take his choice of weapons. Sir George
selected the pick, and Doyle vigorously plied the spade. In almost
less time than it takes to tell it, a very respectable hole had been
dug, and in it was placed the body of the popular private detective.
Just as the last spadeful was shovelled in place the stern voice of a
policeman awoke the silence, and caused Sir George to drop his pick
from nerveless hands.
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