Pentecost stood there a moment, dripping with water, and looking sharply down the road. It was hardly thirty seconds before a large closed car hove in sight, coming rapidly up the slope toward the bridge. A white handkerchief fluttered for an instant from the right-hand rear window (behind the driver), and instantly Pentecost ran out in the road and, waving his own handkerchief, signaled the car to stop. As soon as the car came to a standstill Pentecost called out to the driver, begging pardon for delaying him, etc., but stating that he was in a desperate hurry to get to Boston and asking if he could tell him where there was a garage. The chauffeur told him there was one on the right as he went toward the village—some distance up the road. At this point the man in the car, who’d been listening to the talk and also regarding Pentecost with what appeared to be astonishment (the road was well lighted here), opened the door and asked if there’d been an accident. “Not at all,” said Pentecost; “that is, I did take a tumble into the water. But that’s of no consequence. My trouble is to get to Boston in the shortest possible time—life and death matter—I’ll try the garage up the road—and thank you very much.” “Why see here!” called out the stranger as he climbed out of the car. “You take this machine—just came down in it from Boston—my place in Bourne—across the bridge—walk it in six minutes!... You’ll take him back won’t you?” addressing the man at the wheel. And then to Pentecost as he passed close to him and put something in his hand while he continued speaking, “It’s a hired car you know—he’s got to go back anyway!” The matter was quickly arranged, and the driver stimulated toward doing his best in the way of speed by the promise of a quite enormous bonus if he made it inside of eighty minutes. You may as well know (perhaps you’ve already guessed it) that this was one of Pentecost’s men who hired the car in Boston and came down in it to Buzzards Bay, waiting in the village on some pretext until the _North Land_ reached the railroad bridge over the canal, and then starting for the highway bridge where Pentecost was to stop him. It was a crumpled wad of paper he’d put into Pentecost’s hand, with the number 2026 written on it—the same being the number of the chauffeur’s operating license.