The first real check came at old Dreux, where it was market day. Horses and cattle and carts lumbered and lurched and sprawled and backed over the pavement, thrusting and being thrust: lorries panted and stormed, insistently demanding passage and finding none: little groups of peasants stood in the fairway, absorbed in discourse, shifting mechanically as the raving traffic pushed its way by: gossiping eagerly, old women plunged and bundled from side to side, apparently oblivious alike of time and place until dragged from under cartwheels or overthrown by collision: urchins were baiting dogs, set to guard tail-boards: gentle-eyed calves stared over sides of gigs: chickens, pinioned and thrown, eyed the welter with indignant surprise. Ere he had time to withdraw, Punch was engulfed, and ten precious minutes went by before he was out of the town. Troubles are gregarious. Ten miles from Chartres a tire burst. Fairfax changed the wheel and then, looking over his engine, found that his fan-strap had gone. It was past ten now and becoming immensely hot. Not to repair the defect there and then would be the act of a fool. Punch shook the sweat from his eyes and sought for a spare. . . . The sight of Chartres’ exquisite spires, rising like toy steeples out of the hazy plain, was comforting, but his relentless wrist-watch and the thought of a useless tire jabbed viciously at Fairfax’ nerves. He could not make up his mind whether to stop at Chartres and fit a new tire or to take what risk there was and go his way. As he swept up the boulevards he decided to stop for water and nothing else. He must pass the _Place des Epars_, and he knew a garage was there. . . . The next moment he saw its pump. He drew up to the gap in the kerb with a swift rush. . . . While they were drawing water, he ran across the _Place_ and purchased a pie. The _pâtés_ of Chartres are famous and a meal in themselves. Then he bought two bottles of Evian and hurried back. He found the mechanic regarding the near fore wheel. There was a gash in the cover through which you could see the tube. . . . It was a quarter to eleven by the time he was out of Chartres, and Beringhampton passed him five miles beyond Vendôme. Punch marked his passage mutely, with stony eyes. Then he slid under some trees and took out the clutch. . . . He broke his fast quickly and then lay down in the grass by the side of the road. He knew what it meant to feel sleepy over the wheel. For perhaps ten minutes he dozed. Then he rose, bathed his face and swung himself into the car. . . . The road was wicked now—broken to bits. The grey two-seater leaped like a young ram. But Fairfax let her have it and went like the wind. He had nothing to lose. . . . The broken road took its toll, and when he slid into Tours, one of his wings was flapping and his number-plate hanging by a thread. He pushed up the _Rue Nationale_, to see Beringhampton’s colours crawling ahead.