"I hope no one is coming toward us," he groaned, slowing up sharply. "We never can pass in this confounded lane. If we get off into the soft ground--Hello! Here he comes--and no lights either! Hey! Look out!" He brought his car to an abrupt standstill. "Where are we, Joe?" she cried. "Near the crossroads, I'm sure. Curse an idiot that runs around without lights on a night like this," he growled, forgetting that his own lamps were dark. Out of the misty blackness loomed another car, directly ahead. It had come to a sudden stop not ten feet away. Both cars were tooting their horns viciously. "Where are your lights?" roared Dauntless. "Where are yours?" came back angrily through the fog. "Good Lord!" gasped Joe, panic-stricken. "It's Mr. Windomshire," whispered Eleanor, in consternation. Before she realised what was happening her companion lifted her bodily over the back of the seat and deposited her in the bed of the tonneau. "Hide, dearest," he whispered. "Get under the storm blankets. He must not see you! I'll--I'll bluff it out some way." "Wha--what is he doing out here in a machine?" she was whispering wildly. "He is pursuing us! He has found out!" In the other car Windomshire--for it was the tall Englishman--was hoarsely whispering to some one beside him: "It's Dauntless! Hang him! What's he doing here?" Then followed a hurried scuffling and subdued whispers. A long silence, fraught with an importance which the throbbing of the two engines was powerless to disturb, followed the mutual discovery. Joe's brain worked the quicker. Disguising his voice as best he could, he shouted through the fog: "We can't pass here." "Is--is this Cobberly Road?" cried Windomshire, striving to obtain what he considered the American twang. "No, it's not. It's O'Brien's Lane." Then, after a long silence, "Can't you back out?" "It's rather--I mean sorter risky, mister. I don't know how far I'd have to back, doncherknow--er, ahem!" "The crossroads can't be more than a hundred yards behind you. Where are you going?" "I'm going for--a doctor," called Windomshire, hastily. "Well, then, we ought not to stand here all night," groaned Joe, his ears open to catch the sound of the locomotive's whistle. There was no time to be lost. "I'll--I'll try to back her out," shouted Windomshire. Eleanor whispered something shrilly and anxiously from the tonneau, and Joe called out instantly: "Who is ill?" "Mrs.--Mrs. Smith," replied the other, bravely. "Good!" exclaimed Dauntless, heartily. Windomshire was not in the least annoyed by the lack of sympathy. He began to drive his car backward by jerks and jolts, blindly trusting to luck in the effort to reach the road which he had passed in his haste a few minutes before. Joe was shouting encouragement and pushing slowly forward in his own machine. The noise of the engines was deafening.