The moon rose in cold splendour. The stars appeared. Cunningham knew only one of them by name--Betelgeuse, a red star, the apex of a triangle of which three stars formed the base. The name had struck him as remarkable, and he once had called a bull pup after it. For a moment he thought of his dog's untimely end. But was the Panhard never coming? Perhaps there had been a puncture, and in the absence of a chauffeur Lord Tadcaster was stranded. Possibly he had returned to Bolton Abbey, or taken train forward, or, since he was short-handed, he might have altered his route and gone by the easier road through Otley. In that case, he, Prescott Cunningham, was lost to the Burglars' Club. Ah! There was the toot of a motor in the far distance, again repeated. It was the Tadcaster toot--a base twentieth century substitute for the cry that on the field of Towton in 1461 led another John de Mallaby to a barony and an estate. Cunningham recovered his cycle, be-straddled it, and gently mounted the rise in front. The Panhard dashed up the hill, its acetylene lamps glaring like man-o'-war searchlights. Cunningham advanced his spark. The motor responded, and sprang eagerly after the car. They were leaving him behind. He slowly opened his throttle valve. Now he was making pace. He was gaining on them yard by yard, hand over fist. He was only a hundred yards behind now--fifty--twenty-five. Could he do it? The psychological moment had come. He drew his revolver and aimed at the near back tyre of the car in front. Ah! he had missed. He hit it with his second shot. It split with a rousing bang. The car listed and dragged. It swerved across the road in violent curves, but Cunningham saw by the slowing of the speed that the driver had thrown out his clutch. At last it stopped. [Illustration: "'SOFTLY, MY LORD,' SAID CUNNINGHAM; 'I AM COVERING YOU, YOU OBSERVE.'" (_p. 192._)] "What's the meaning of this outrage, you scoundrel?" cried the infuriated motorist. "Softly, my lord," said Cunningham, now on his feet, and advancing with revolver in hand. "I am covering you, you observe!" "A highwayman, by George!" exclaimed the peer. "And Edward VII. on the throne. A highwayman on castors!" "Your lordship evidently recognises the situation," said Cunningham. "This will save time and trouble, I hope." "I suppose you want my purse?" replied the peer. "This comes of travelling without my chauffeur," he added plaintively. "By George, if Achille were here, he'd worry you. If I were ten years younger I'd tackle you myself." "Regrets are futile, my lord," said Cunningham, "but a purse will not satisfy me." "Oh, you want two, do you? Eva, I'm afraid you'll have to give him yours as well. Shockin' luck for this to happen the first time we've travelled alone. I oughtn't to have let you come."