Still, they made Hounslow by half-past ten; edged warily over tram-lines; pulled up for a second to avoid disaster. “Hope you’re not joy-riding, sir,” grinned a blue-helmeted constable. “Joy-riding!”—Peter, hand on gear lever, grinned back scornfully—“do we look as if we were joy-riding!” Francis, peeping overside, was understood to mutter something about, “bringing the good news from Aix to Ghent.” . . . None of the four quite remembers how they made the last lap to London. It comes back to them as a jerking, fidgety dream—houses, tram-lines, motor-omnibuses; a scrap of clear straight road here; turns there; people staring, people cursing; shop-windows in which they saw themselves skidding past; dogs diving for cover; scream of Klaxon, jar of gear-lever, throb of engine. . . . “Time?”, Peter kept asking. “Time, Pat?” . . . “Ten-thirty-five.” . . . “Ten-forty.” . . . “Quarter to, all but ten seconds.” . . . “Damn it, we must make Piccadilly by eleven o ’clock.” . . . More houses. . . . A saloon. . . . Francis, head down in the tonneau, groping for his flags, hitting his head against the back of the driving-seat. . . . “Twelve minutes to eleven.” . . . Beatrice, eyes on Peter’s cap, muttering to herself, “He’ll never do it. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t do it.” . . . “Five to!” called Patricia—and Fulham Road streamed out behind as they zig-zagged in and out among sparse traffic. . . . “Three minutes.” . . . “What was that? Oh, yes, Harrods. Good old Harrods.” . . . “Two minutes more.” . . . The Hyde Park Hotel whizzed by. . . . Railings. . . . A clear road. . . . Hyde Park Corner ahead . . . and:— “Done it, I think,” remarked our Mr. Jameson, as a motor-bus, swaying out of Park Lane, missed their rear mud-guards by the grace of God and two inches. . . . Thut of cylinders dropped to steady purr. Clubland on their left, railings on their right, slackened speed; grew steady and perceptible. Traffic, through which the Crossley threaded easy way, appeared all round them. . . . They were in Piccadilly! . . . Clarges Street—Half Moon Street—Bolton Street—known names, black-lettered on gray stone—Apsley House—The Ritz—corner of Bond Street. . . . And, suddenly, they heard a voice. “P.J.!” bawled the voice. “Hi! P.J.! Halt, will you! Halt, I say.” Peter, jamming brakes hard on, felt the car skid under him; felt wheels jar against sidewalk; was aware of Francis, shouting in his ear “Bravo, well-driven old thing,” of Beatrice and Patricia standing up, of a taxi-back two inches from his radiator, of a motor-bus grinding to standstill—and of a little red man, with flat red moustaches on his face and faded red tabs on his uniform, a little red man in a huge cap, who came dashing out of Scott’s hat-shop, bawling: “Halt, confound you, P.J. Halt! It’s eleven o’clock.” . . . It was the Weasel; and even as the Weasel darted across the sidewalk, London went mad and they with London!