“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t. Oh, Mr. Mullins, this is a terrible business! What _are_ we to do?” The look of appealing helplessness that Laura turned on her fellow-adventurer was not what might have been expected from a young woman who had just been driving a car at nearly fifty miles an hour along an unlighted road. Fortunately Mr. Priestley was in no state to notice such discrepancies. “Don’t you worry, my dear young lady,” he said paternally. “You shall come to no harm. Now, let me see, is there any other way we can arrange ourselves? I really think we should push on a little farther before we see about getting hold of a file, and this running-board is really a most uncomfortable way of travelling. How can we manage?” “Supposing you knelt in front of the seat with your back to the engine?” suggested Laura. “We might be able to manage like that.” “Humph,” replied Mr. Priestley, to whom the idea did not seem to appeal. “No, Mrs. Spettigue, I think —by the way, I suppose you’re not Mrs. Spettigue now?” “I’m afraid not,” Laura confessed with much contrition. “You’re not married at all?” “No,” said Laura, hanging her head. One saw that she was now overwhelmed with shame at the thought of her base deception. “Then who are you?” “I’m—I’m usually known as Chicago Kate,” Laura said in a very small voice. “I’m supposed to be the cleverest woman thief in the world,” she added with simple pride, brightening a little. “Bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, gazing at her with renewed interest. She looked very young for so notorious a person. As he gazed Mr. Priestley felt a guilty thrill run through him. Abandoned she might be, but indubitably she was charming; and he was committed to a desperate adventure with her. His fate was linked with hers, in fact, not only literally but metaphorically too. They were joined together not only by a handcuff, but by the joint secret of what Mr. Priestley even now could not bring himself to regard as murder. Dash it all, he had never _meant_ to kill the man! He would never have dreamed of firing if he had even distantly suspected the revolver of being loaded. Manslaughter, perhaps, and most reprehensible; but certainly not murder. It came to Mr. Priestley with a shock of surprise to find how singularly lightly this man’s death sat upon his conscience at that moment. Probably reaction would come later and he would be properly horrified, but just at the moment his mind was far busier with other matters. “Well,” he resumed briskly, “what I propose is that we push on a little farther, and then set about borrowing a file. Of course we must take obvious precautions. We must not stop at a place which is likely to be on the telephone, and as we shall appear to be—h’m!—holding hands, I think we should have some story prepared to account for any awkward questions.”