" excitement. Shelley picked it up, opened it, and glanced at its muddled contents. “Quite right, Mr. Fairhurst,” he admitted. “Well, that clinches the whole affair. Mr. Wallace has Miss Arnell here in Yorkshire. And they can’t be very far away, judging by the heat of the coffee in the pot on the breakfast-table downstairs.” “How are you going to catch them?” asked Henry. “Watch me and see,” answered Shelley. He ran down the stairs, the others following him helter-skelter. Out of the front door Shelley ran; Cunningham, who was a burly man, puffed in his wake, and the others straggled along in the rear. Shelley paused in front of the house, anxiously scanning the gravel, which was loosely thrown on the little private road which led from the main road up to the house itself, and up which they had driven a mere few minutes earlier. “Ah!” he exclaimed at length. “Here we are. See, Cunningham?” Henry Fairhurst peered at the two detectives, as they looked at the ground. “Yes,” said Cunningham. “An old Dunlop with a patch. That should be easy enough to follow.” “Good,” answered Shelley. “In the car, quickly, gentlemen, if you don’t mind. We’re close to them now, and we shall soon have them.” Soon they were in the car, and Shelley gave his instructions to the driver. “Drive down to the main road as fast as you can,” he "

― , Murder in the Museum