Of the wild drive that had followed, half way across England, through the wonderful summer night, the King had now, as he had had at the time, only a hazy, confused impression--a hazy, confused impression of Uncle Bond, at his side, crouched over the steering wheel of the huge Daimler, driving with a reckless audacity more suited to the commander of a destroyer, or of a submarine, than to a mere retailer of grotesquely improbable tales, of Uncle Bond talking incessantly as he drove, and chuckling delightedly, as he gave a free rein to the fantastic flights of his characteristically extravagant humour. Where, and when, he had caught the night mail, the King had still no clear idea. A blurred vision of Uncle Bond, racing at his side, down a long, dimly lit railway platform, and throwing his last portmanteau in, after him, through the window of the already moving train, was all that remained with him, of the scene at the station. And then the train had thundered on, through the sleeping countryside, and he had been alone, at last, in the darkness, in the darkness in which, for hours, he had seen only Judith's beautiful, vivid face, while the train had thundered in his ears, only Judith's name-- By this time, the powerfully engined car had run clear of the outer suburban tramway track, and was rushing through the semi-rural area of market gardens, and scattered villas, where the town first meets, and mingles with, the country, on the north side of London. Coronation illuminations had now been left far behind. Soon even the last of the long chain of lamps provided by the public lighting system was passed. It was by the light thrown on to the road, by the glaring headlights on the throbbing car, and by the softer light of the moon, that the King had now to do his driving--