I thought of Screw and the Bow Street runner approaching Crickgelly, from their point of the compass, perhaps at the full speed of a good post-chaise--I thought of that, and would have given all the money in my pocket for two hours' use of a fast road-hack.
Judging by the time we occupied in making the journey, and a little also by my own impatience, I should say that Crickgelly must have been at least twenty miles distant from the town where I took the gig.

The sun was setting, when we first heard, through the evening stillness, the sound of the surf on the seashore.

The twilight was falling as we entered the little fishing village, and let our unfortunate pony stop, for the last time, at a small inn door.
The first question I asked of the landlord was, whether two gentlemen (friends of mine, of course, whom I expected to meet) had driven into Crickgelly, a little while before me.

The reply was in the negative; and the sense of relief it produced seemed to rest me at once, body and mind, after my long and anxious journey.

Either I had beaten the spies on the road, or they were not bound to Crickgelly.