Dilly and Dally, feet tight-propped against the provision basket, looked at each other in mock alarm. “It wasn’t our fault,” stammered Francis through chattering teeth, “why wasn’t the Octopus on time? He said half-past eight.” Beatrice, craning forward a moment, eyed the speedometer. “What are we doing, Beatrice?” “Forty-five and a chip.” “Lord!” The car shot on, purring—Peter, nearly recumbent, notched wheel gripped easily in gloved hands; Patricia bolt upright, eyes on the speeding hedge-rows. They made the six miles to Henley in a fraction over twelve minutes; swirled righthanded at the railway-station; took the water-front at a bound; skidded the Bridge-corner on two wheels. Church, bridge and river vanished like mad movies. “Going well,” muttered Peter through set teeth. White Hill rose up like a roof ahead. “Open that cut-out for me.” Exhaust roaring, cylinders throbbing, the Crossley hurtled up between the trees; slowed to twenty; felt herself flung back into second; topped the rise; raced engine the fraction of an instant; took top-gear again; shot on. Houses, trees, a crawling dray, flashed astern. Gray tarmac zipped under. Ahead, the road rose; dropped; rose again. Now, they were in open country. Peter took one deep breath; fidgeted throttle-lever full open; jammed foot on accelerator. Couple behind felt the car gather herself as if for a great leap; saw passing hedge-rows fade out to a continuous blurr. Speedometer-needle clicked to sixty; held there for three and a half ecstatic minutes. . . . “Right, isn’t it?” shouted Peter suddenly. “Yes.” Patricia, map on knee, watched Hurley Bottom skim by. He slowed; climbed a hair-pin turn warily; nipped across the Thicket; veered left for Maidenhead. The clock at Nicholson’s Brewery showed five minutes past ten as they crawled down into the town; opened out again for the Bridge; swished over it past Skindle’s Hotel. “Shall we do it?” asked Pat. “Question of luck.” He opened the cut-out again; roared under Taplow Railway-viaduct. So far, road had been almost empty. Now, other cars appeared ahead. The Crossley raced them down the Bath Road; passed them one by one. Slough vanished. Something honked behind them; honked again. Peter, wheels almost on turf, was aware of a Rolls-Royce bonnet, of a dark-blue car sweeping by; caught a glimpse of Arthur, in sky-blue Air Service uniform, sitting rigid at the wheel. . . . Crossley gathered way; Klaxon barked furiously; Rolls-Royce swerved; Peter, grin on his face, shot past. Beatrice, peering over the back of the cabriolet, saw Arthur’s eyes light; saw his hand move slowly on the wheel. Then the Rolls-Royce was on them; creeping up, effortless, silent. . . . Honk, honk, honk. “Drat the fellow,” muttered Peter. For a mile, he refused way; then Arthur, with two inches to spare, purred calmly by; recognized Peter with a wave of the hand—and disappeared in dust. . . .