I had to slow down at last for a parcel of stones. The road was being re-made, and thirty yards of rubble had to be delicately trod. As we forged through the ruck at twenty, Piers stared at the side of the road. "BORDEAUX 16," he quoted. Ten more miles--and nineteen minutes to go. The traffic was growing now with every furlong. Belated lorries rumbled about their business: cars panted and raved into the night: carts jolted out of turnings into the great main road. When I think of the chances I took, the palms of my hands grow hot. To wait for others to grant my request for room was out of the question. I said I was coming.... I came--and that was that. Times out of number I overtook vehicles upon the wrong side. As for the frequent turnings, I hoped for the best.... Once, where four ways met, I thought we were done. A car was coming across--I could see its headlights' beam. I opened the throttle wide, and we raced for the closing gap. As we came to the cross of the roads, I heard an engine's roar.... For an instant a searchlight raked us.... There was a cry from Berry ... an answering shout ... the noise of tires tearing at the road ... and that was all. A moment later I was picking my way between two labouring waggons and a trio of straggling carts. "BORDEAUX 8," quoted Piers. Five more miles--and eleven minutes to go. Piers had the plan of the city upon his knees. He conned it as best he could by the glow of the hooded light. After a moment or two he thrust the book away. "The station's this end of the town. We can't miss it. I'll tell you when to turn." Three minutes more, and our road had become a street. Two parallel, glittering lines warned me of trams to come. As if to confirm their news, a red orb in the distance was eyeing us angrily.... "We turn to the right," said Piers. "I'll tell you when." I glanced at the clock. The hour was nine minutes past ten. My teeth began to chatter of sheer excitement.... There was a turning ahead, and I glanced at Piers. "Not yet," he said. With a frantic eye on the clock, I thrust up that awful road. The traffic seemed to combine to cramp my style. I swerved, I cut in, I stole an odd yard, I shouldered other drivers aside, and once, confronted with a block, I whipped on to the broad pavement and, amid scandalised shouts, left the obstruction to stay less urgent business. All the time I could see the relentless minute-hand beating me on the post.... At last Piers gave the word, and I switched to the right. The boulevard was empty. We just swept up it like a black squall. Left and right, then, and we entered the straight--with thirty seconds to go. "Some way up," breathed Piers. I set my teeth hard and let my lady out.... By the time I had sighted the station, the speedometer's needle had swung to seventy-three.... I ran alongside the pavement, clapped on the brakes, threw out the clutch. Piers switched off, and we flung ourselves out of the car.