Time after time they shot past the widow, who had eyes only for her champion. Her blue sunshade was up, and as she stood there alone she hoped against hope that the Prince--the man who had told her his secret--would prove the victor. When he was in front, loud shouts rent the air from the men interested in the make of car he was driving, while, on the other hand, if the Frenchman gained the vantage the applause from his partisans was vociferous. Over all was a cloud of light dust, while the wind created by the cars as they rushed past fanned the cheeks of the woman watching her champion with such deep interest. A group of men near her were discussing him. "Drummond is a magnificent driver," one remarked in admiration. "Look at him coming up now. Cagno never drove like that, even in his very best race." "I wonder what interest he has in the Company? He surely wouldn't race for the mere excitement," remarked another. "Interest!" cried a third man--and, truth to tell, he was Max Mason--"Why he has the option to buy up the whole of the concern, lock, stock, and barrel. I heard so yesterday. The company gave it to him a fortnight ago. Lawrence, the secretary, told me so. Why, by Jove! if he wins, the fortune of that make of car is secured. I suppose he has capital behind him, and will buy up the whole concern. I only wish I were in it. A tenth share would be a fortune." "You're right," remarked the first man. "Dick Drummond is a shrewd chap. If he wins he'll make a pot of money on the deal--you see. It'll be the biggest advertisement that a car has ever had in all the whole annals of motoring." Mrs Edmondson listened to all this in silence. She quite understood. The Prince, in his character of Dick Drummond, had entered into the affair with a view to a big financial deal--the purchase of the important company who were responsible for the car he was driving. The car in question, be it said, was the actual mustard-coloured one in which she had careered about the West Riding, although she did not recognise it in its garb of dirty slate-grey. She found it quite fascinating, standing there watching those two cars with their powerful roaring engines striving for the mastery, as mile after mile was covered at that frightful break-neck speed. Her heart was with the man bent over his wheel, whom every one believed to be a commoner, and whom she alone knew to be a prince. And he, the cousin of the Kaiser, had actually squeezed her hand! As the end of the race approached the excitement increased. The onlookers grouped themselves in little knots, watching critically for any sign of weakness in one or the other. But there was none. Carlier was as dogged as his opponent, and kept steadily on until at the eightieth mile he gradually overhauled the Englishman.