With a hammering heart, Fairfax drew very close. . . . As he slipped by he glanced round. The chauffeur saw him and smiled and touched his hat. Except for him at the wheel, the car was empty. Punch pulled into the side, and the other slowed up. “Where’s his lordship?” said Fairfax. The man’s lips tightened. “He’s just taken the train, sir.” “Why?” “We ’ad a very near shave, sir, a mile or two back.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “As near to death as ever I want to be.” He paused. Then he burst out. “I’ve given ’im notice, sir. I’ve only got one life. If they mark a bend over ’ere, you can bet it’s a turn and a ’alf. I pointed ’im out the sign, but ’e didn’t care. . . . An’ a steam-roller waitin’ the other side.” He wiped his face. “I thought we was done, I did. . . . When we was through, I told ’im I’ld leave ’im at Tours. ’E asked me if I was afraid, an’ I said, Yes, I was. ‘Then drive,’ says he. ‘An’ be cursed an’ ’ounded,’ says I, ‘till I can’t think straight? Not much, my lord,’ I says. ‘I’ll leave at Tours.’ When we got ’ere ’e drove to the station an’ asked if there was a train. . . . Some train was there—movin’ . . . They ’auled ’im in and I pushed ’is dressing-case up. ‘Deliver the car,’ he cries, an’ there you are.” “What filthy luck!” cried Punch, half to himself. “What filthy luck!” The man looked at him curiously. Then he glanced at the car. “You’re coming to pieces, sir. Are you going far?” “Biarritz,” said Punch. The fellow glanced at his clock. “I suppose you’ll be needin’ your car, sir, or I—I could give you a lift.” Fairfax’ heart leaped. Then he shook his head. “I can’t use his car,” he said. “It isn’t ’is car,” cried the man. “’E sold ’er a week ago—sold ’er to Mr. Fairie. ’E’s at St. Johndylose. An’ as ’e was goin’ to Beeritz, ’is lordship made the offer to bring ’er out.” He dived at a pocket. “Why, ’er papers an’ all’s in Mr. Fairie’s name.” “Mr. Fairie of Castle Charing?” “That’s right, sir. Is he a friend of yours?” “I should think he was,” shouted Fairfax. “But I say—I want to move.” The chauffeur smiled. “She’ll move, sir. D’you know the way?” “I do. D’you want any petrol?” “I was just going to fill the tank, sir.” “I know a garage here. You follow me.” Ten minutes later the faithful grey two-seater had been worthily bestowed, the Hispano-Suiza’s tank had been filled to the brim and Fairfax had taken his seat beside her driver. As they moved off— “She’s better nor any train,” said the latter shortly. If the surface was none too good, at least the way was straight and the road open. The reaches became gigantic: after each bend you could see for miles ahead. The traffic, too, was negligible. It was, indeed, the exception not to have the road to yourself. With the roar of a lion, the great car leapt at her prey. . . .