"Horses, horses," said Smith, "the poor miserable things! Ain’t I sorry for Tim Bunting! Here we go, my lady." He broke the law magnificently, and with such skill that Penelope wondered. But only once he ran against the law in the shape of a policeman, north of Hatfield, who saw him coming and signalled to him to stop. "Shall I?" said Smith. "No!" shrieked Pen, against the tide of wind. They passed him flying and saw him run as they passed. "He’ll wire to Hitchin and have us there," said Smith. But he knew his roads. "Oh, will he?" He took the right fork of the roads at Welwyn and roared through Stevenage to Baldock and found the main road again at Sandy. They reached Huntington, sixty miles from town, in an hour and three quarters. "And I’ve never let her out but once," said Smith; "she’s a daisy!" The eighteen miles to Spilsborough they did at a speed that made Penelope bend her head. She felt wonderful: she was on a shooting-star. They slackened on the outskirts of the cathedral city and rolled through it delicately. She looked about her and remembered the dear bishop who had christened her when he was no more than a vicar. "We’ll go by Crowland and Spalding, Smith." A car followed them out of Spilsborough, and Smith, going easy, looked back and saw it. "Catch us, my son," he said, contemptuously. But when they were well clear of town and he turned her loose, so to speak, Pen’s nerve went, or it appeared to go. "Don’t go so fast, Smith," she commanded. And Smith obeyed sorrowfully. "They can’t stand it," he said; "none of ’em can stand it really. They let on they can, but it’s no go. A few hot miles gives them the mulligrubs." But nevertheless they were running over thirty miles an hour. The car behind crawled up to them. "All I’ve got to do, my lady, is to ask her to shake ’em off, and away we go and leave ’em," he suggested. "Oh, no, no," said Pen. At Spalding the pursuer, if he were one, was not a hundred yards behind. But in the town Smith got ahead. He did not see Penelope trembling. Smith had taken a look at the one behind. "There’s power there," he said, savagely. "If he lets her out and my lady squeals, I’m passed!" She did "squeal" the other side of Spalding, but not for herself. The other car had to stop. "That’s done ’em," said Smith; "they’re in the ditch." He gained ten miles on them, and Penelope wept. And just as they were coming into Boston at an easy gait, Smith turned and saw the other car coming up behind like a meteor, with the dust astern of her in a fume. "That chap can drive after all," said Smith. "Won’t you try to let me get away from him before we get to Spilsby, my lady?" "I—I don’t want to," said Pen. And five miles outside of Spilsby the pursuing car drew up with them. Two indistinguishable monsters drove it, and through his glaring goggles Smith glared at them as they came alongside. "Stop," said Penelope, suddenly. "Stop, Smith." And the other car stopped too.