She responded like the thoroughbred she was. I dared not glance at the speedometer, but I could feel each mile as it added itself to our pace. I felt this climb from ninety to ninety-one. Thickening the spark by a fraction, I brought it to ninety-two ... ninety-three.... In a quiet, steady voice, Piers began to give me the benefit of his sight. "Something ahead on the right ... a waggon ... all clear ... cart, I think, on the right ... no--yes. It's not moving.... A bicycle on the left ... and another ... a car coming ... all clear ... no--a man walking on the right ... all clear...." So, our narrowed eyes nailed to the straight grey ribbon streaming into the distance, the sea and the waves roaring in our ears, folded in the wings of the wind, we cheated Dusk of seven breathless miles and sent Nature packing with a fork in her breech. Sore at this treatment, the Dame, as ever, returned, with Night himself to urge her argument. I threw in my hand with a sigh, and Piers switched on the lights as we ran into Aire-sur-l'Adour. I heard a clock striking as we swung to the left in the town.... Eight o'clock. Two more hours and a quarter, and a hundred and nineteen miles to go. I tried not to lose heart.... We had passed Villeneuve-de-Marsan, and were nearing, I knew, cross-roads, when Piers forestalled my inquiry and spoke in my ear. "Which shall you do? Go straight? Or take the forest road?" "I don't know the Roquefort way, except that there's pavement there. What's it like?" "It's pretty bad," said Piers. "But you'll save about fifteen miles." "How much pavement is there? Five or six miles?" "Thirty about," said Piers. "Thanks very much," said I. "We'll go by the forest." I think I was right. I knew the forest road and I knew its surface was superb. Thirty miles of pavement, which I did not know, which was admittedly rough, presented a ghastly prospect. The 'luxury' tax of fifteen precious miles, tacked on to the way of the forest, was really frightening, but since such a little matter as a broken lamp would kill our chances, I dared not risk the rough and tumble of the pavement upon the Roquefort road. At last the cross-roads came, and we swung to the right. We had covered a third of the ground. I glanced at the gleaming clock sunk in the dash. Twenty-five minutes past eight. An hour and fifty minutes--and a hundred miles to go. With a frightful shock I realised that, _even with the daylight to help me, I had used a third of my time_. I began to wish frantically that I had gone by Roquefort. I felt a wild inclination to stop and retrace my steps. Pavement? Pavement be burned. I must have been mad to throw away fifteen miles--fifteen golden miles.... Adèle's face, pale, frightened, accusing, stared at me through the wind-screen. Over her shoulder, Jill, white and shrinking, pointed a shaking finger. With a groan, I jammed my foot on the accelerator....