On the other hand,
Sir Tancred was averse to going to the police; he knew what the
provincial police were. What was excellent evidence to him would seem
no evidence at all to them; and they would move too late, or, if they
moved in time, would muddle the whole business, and let the
Biggleswades know they were suspected. Besides, it hurt his self-love
to seek aid from anyone. No, the proper game was to rob the robbers,
and he had seven shillings to play it with.
Suddenly Tinker stirred. "I'm going to try now," he said.
Sir Tancred looked at the Biggleswades. Mr. Biggleswade lay sprawled
on his back, a handkerchief spread over his face; and mellowed by the
distance, the music of a long-drawn snore murmured over the sands.
Mrs. Biggleswade was nodding over a book.
Tinker rose, bade Blazer stay where he was; and walked off towards the
hotel. Sir Tancred twisted round his chair, tore a hole in his _Daily
Telegraph_, and watched him. Tinker fetched a circuit to within a
hundred yards of the backs of the Biggleswades, threw his straw hat on
the sand, dropped on to his stomach, and began to squirm along towards
them, taking advantage of every ridge and hollow. It was a long
business, but at last he lay in a hollow thirty yards away.
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