“They’re off at last,” he said. “After seven weeks at the gate, at last they’re off. . . . If I wasn’t a blinkin’ fool, I should turn round and drive straight back. As it is . . .” He shifted uneasily. “_Damn_ it all, why shouldn’t I have a run? Why shouldn’t I have it out before he comes—get there and have it out? An’ tell her he’s coming an’ then push gracefully off? I’ve nothing to lose, and I’ld like her to know how much I really cared.” He sat up suddenly. “By George, I will. When she knows he’s really off, perhaps she won’t——” He stopped short there, took off his hat and carefully wiped his face. Then he put on his hat, adjusted it carefully, thrust his cigarette between his lips, and folded his arms. “The art of Life,” he announced, “is to keep one’s bullet head. If I go, it’s simply because I’ve got nothing to lose.” As the A.A. man came up— “Last on the boat, first off—am I right?” said Fairfax. “You are, sir.” “Then put me on last, please.” “I will, sir.” Punch handed over his papers and sought for a drink. As he passed into the hotel, Beringhampton came out. “Hullo,” said Fairfax cheerfully. “Come and have another.” The other stared. “Are you crossing?” he said. “I am that,” said Fairfax, “complete with automobile. Destination, B-B-B-Biarritz—where the rainbow ends.” “What are you going there for?” “Pleasure,” said Punch shortly. “And you?” For a moment Beringhampton looked him in the face. Then the peer’s eyes fell to the mat at his feet. “I never talk,” he said. “I never talk.” He spat the words rather than spoke them. “All right,” said Fairfax, laughing. “But come to the harbour bar and have a——” “’S damned bad form to laugh,” flashed Beringhampton, and went his way. Fairfax looked after him. “The man’s mad,” he murmured. “Staring mad. Face like a Greek god, an’ a kink in his brain. . . . And to think she thinks she loves him!” He raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh, where’s the bar?” That night in his cabin Fairfax remade his plans. Between Dieppe and Biarritz lay five hundred and twenty miles. He had intended to stay one night on the road and had chosen Tours as his lodging. From Dieppe to Tours the distance was two hundred miles. Thus, travelling at ease, he would have come to Biarritz on Tuesday afternoon. His meeting with Beringhampton had altered everything. Generally, it suggested that any avoidable delay should be avoided. Specially, it emphasized the desirability of extreme haste, first, because Beringhampton would naturally propose to reach Biarritz before the grey two-seater, and, secondly, because the Hispano-Suiza was far and away the faster car. Punch knitted his brows. The boat would reach Dieppe at 4 a.m.: with luck his car could have passed the Customs and be actually on the road at five o’clock; and then—five hundred and twenty miles. . . .