Handyside, of course, had heard Theydon’s gleeful exclamation.  He chuckled pleasantly: 

“Your digest goes a little too far, Mr. Theydon,” he said, “but compared with the newspaper placard facts in your possession, my story is a full-sized novel.  Anyhow, I’ll condense it, so here goes.  I was back of the crowd when the circus started outside the Eastbourne depot.  As I ante’d up your ticket and collected your deposit of a sovereign, I saw what took place, and sized up the result pretty accurately.  The kidnaping proposition had failed, but the guy in the silk hat had got clear away in a bully good car—­ how good I know now.  It seemed to me that, next to rescuing that charming young lady, it was important something should be known about the thug who wanted to carry her off, and, when my eyes lit on a workmanlike motor bicycle with a side-car rig standing close to the curb, and well clear of the arena, said I to myself:  ’George T. Handyside, this is where you take a flier, and maybe Illinois will score one.’  The man who owned the outfit was watching the commotion when I dug him in the ribs.  ’Take me after that car,’ I said, ’and I’ll pay you a shilling a mile with five pounds on account if it’s only a 100 yards.’  I pressed a note into his hand—­ and, say, you Britishers wake up all right when you see real money!  We were doing thirty per in less than ten seconds.  No car on four wheels can lose any decent motorcycle on a switchback track, and Jackson, the owner of this one, says it’s good enough for sixty on a fair stretch of road.  Anyhow, we held the thug dead easy, but didn’t press him any, as I had no call to butt in, had I?”

“Mr. Handyside,” said Theydon.  “I won’t waste time now by telling you how grateful we all are.  Get on with the knitting!”

“Sir, I’ve had the time of my life—­ a rip-snorting movie, with George T. on the film from A to Z...  No!  Go away, exchange.  I’m renting this line for the next quarter of an hour.  Well, we made a bee-line for Beachy Head—­ so Jackson told me—­ and, when the automobile pulled up, we got under a hedge and I did a bit of scout work on my feet.  I saw Silk Hat pick out a lady from a bunch of people, who seemed to be taking the view with sandwiches, and it was simple as falling off a log to follow the position of affairs—­ Silk Hat urging lady to come with him, lady astonished, not able to size up exact bearings of the yarn, but finally yielding.  Now, if Miss Forbes hadn’t told us that her mother had written saying she was going to Beachy Head with a picnic party this afternoon I would have gotten off at the wrong address, because I could hardly have failed to believe that Silk Hat was picking up a female accomplice.  But, as things stood, I suspicioned that, failing the daughter, he was putting up a bunco tale for the mother—­ a situation new, I believe, in the realm of romantic fiction.  I thought it was up to me to play a strong hand, so I threw a few facts on the screen for Jackson’s