As the gates burst open violently and the car lurched on to the road, Lizzy pulled her companion back to the shadow of the wall. At that moment a man came flying through the gateway and leapt upon the running-board. Again the car slowed perceptibly. “He’s there,” whispered Lizzy fiercely. “Quick--luggage rack!” In an instant she was flying after the machine, caught the iron rail of the rack and sprang on. The car was gathering speed as Selwyn Moron stumbled forward, his hand gripping the rail, his legs moving faster than nature had intended. Kneeling down, Lizzy caught him by a garment which ladies do not mention, let alone grab, and hauled him up to her side, breathless, almost dead. “Hold tight!” she squeaked in his ear, and there was need for the caution, for the car was bumping from side to side over the uneven road, at a speed beyond her computation. “A thousand miles an hour!” she jerked into his ear, and he nodded his complete agreement. Now they were on the post road. The bumping had ceased, and the machine was going even faster. Lizzy held tight to the luggage support and adopted an attitude of passive fatalism. Once a motorcyclist snapped past, going in the other direction, and she had a glimpse of a uniform cap. It was a policeman, but by the time she realised the fact he was out of sight. The seat was most uncomfortable. She began to realise the sensations of a herring on a gridiron and wondered if the luggage rack would leave the same marks. Selwyn was trying to whisper to her; he had recovered most of his breath and all his sense of obligation. “What about that car of ours? We hired it by the hour,” he whispered hoarsely, and she put her lips to his ear. “Shaddles will pay,” she said gaily, and found a delight in the prospect. A little while later the car stopped, and the two unauthorised riders got ready to jump. Peeping round the back of the machine, Lizzy saw the cause of the delay. They had pulled up at a sort of sentry box and one of the party was unlocking the door. She knew that the hut was an automobile station equipped with a telephone, before she heard a muffled voice speaking. Presently the telephoner came out. “All right,” he said, as he climbed in and the car started again. They had not gone twenty miles when, to her surprise, the machine slackened its speed again, slowed almost to a halt, and then turned suddenly through a pair of old gates that had been opened for them. She felt a communicated excitement from her companion as he bent over towards her. “Old family estate,” he whispered. “Country seat and all that sort of thing! Knew it as soon as I saw the gates.” “Whose?” she asked cautiously. “Mine,” was the surprising reply. And then, feeling that he had overstated the case, he added: “Her ladyship’s really. Beastly house--never liked it. Moron Court, Newbury. Rum place----”