Wagner, as usual when he was wanted, had "just gone out" for something. But Kate had an enthusiast's knowledge of her that year's forty-horse car. She saw that both electric and magneto ignitions were switched off, and then she turned on her gasolene, flooded the carburetter, and applied herself to the starting handle. There was a high compression in the engine, but she was strong, and just then she was goaded by something which made her put out just a fraction more (she thought) than the full of her strength. She filled the cylinders with gas. Then she threw in the switch to all the insulators, and the engine started most obediently. She stepped into the driving seat, collected her wraps, threw out the clutch, dropped in the first speed, and let the clutch slide home. The car drew out, as if it had been pulled by a rope, and Kate flung a last hand wave to Mrs. Craven. Then she got on to the direct drive of the third speed, and checked her throttle to keep down the pace till she was out of the traffic. "Six-and-twenty miles to Carnforth," she reckoned, "and the train goes through there in just sixty-one minutes from now. Well, I should average thirty-five miles an hour for the run, and that will leave me nice time to find someone to take charge of the car, and buy a ticket to Liverpool for myself." They pulled out of the village, and Kate pushed up her spark and throttle levers notch by notch. The purr of the motor increased in shrillness. She drove often herself, but seldom at high speeds, and just now, when she got into the long empty stretches of straight, out of sheer exhilaration she let out the great car till it was wheeling along at a good forty miles to the hour. It swayed rather dangerously, but she had no nerves to be ruffled by a trifle like that. The motor was giving out its high note of exultant speed, and she was thrilled with the power she rode. Woods and rocks flew by, mile after mile of fencing shot astern, but still the great car sang along its way, now bumping over a grip, now slackening a trifle on a rise. The rhythm of the engines sounded in her ears like a poem, and she tended to their needs with a real affection; the pelt of the air exhilarated her. And then came the downfall. A whistle shrieked out from behind her, another whistle shrilled in front, and a policeman sprang from the hedge. Kate was in no mood for stopping. She tried to dodge round the man. With ignorant courage he leaped across the road to stop her. She threw out her clutch and desperately set her brakes. The great car lurched, slid, sidled, and all but overturned. The policeman, by a marvellous mixture of skill, presence of mind, and luck on Kate's part, was not killed. But he stood scorching his hand on a very warm radiator, and Kate sat white-faced at the wheel, taming down her insulted engines.