But even then there was no time to waste in useless explanations or converse. Grabbing her handcuffed hand with a brief grunt, Mr. Priestley, that suddenly transformed man of leisure, set off at a round pace down the road. His companion, having no say in the matter, and no breath to say it with had she had one, followed. They reached the car and fell inside in a congested bundle. The fact that it was Mr. Priestley’s left wrist which was tethered, made things a little awkward. For them to sit decorously side by side in the orthodox manner was out of the question, for the car’s gear-levers were on the right. “I’ll stand on the running-board,” Mr. Priestley panted, “till we’re safely out of the way.” He scrambled nimbly over the side and did his best to anchor himself against it. Laura started the engine, backed the car out of the lane and set off up the road. Getting into top gear, she drove steadily ahead at a rapidly increasing pace, her face as grim and set as she imagined that of an accessory to murder and professional thief should be. At her side Mr. Priestley bounced unhappily up and down, clinging desperately to the side of the car with his free hand and expecting every moment to be jerked backwards into the road. That in such an event his companion would be neatly extricated from the car to share his fate afforded him no consolation. Fortunately he was far too preoccupied for the moment in saving his own life at every twist or jolt in the road to be in a fit state to think coherently about what had happened since he last saw this car. Laura, on the other hand, was thinking rapidly. Once the confusion had subsided of that wild rush from the house and her ignominious part in it, her brain had found itself free again to return to business. It was now working overtime.