“Well?” asked Haverly sharply. “You must think we’re green to swallow a yarn like that,” retorted the official. “Do you think a bloomin’ millionaire would go about without a few quid in his pocket?” At that moment the _phut! phut!_ of a motor sounded from without the station gates, and a car pulled up at the entrance. “Hullo! Doctor Oswyn,” cried the station-master, as a tall, good-looking young fellow loomed through the gloom; “here’s a fellow as professes to be Haverly, the American millionaire.” “And so he is, you thundering blockhead!” cried the newcomer, as he gripped the Yankee’s hand. “Frank!” exclaimed the latter, returning the pressure; “this is great!” “Whatever brings you to this hole, Silas?” Oswyn asked. Withdrawing beyond earshot of the astounded porter and his equally astonished chief, Haverly gave his friend a brief outline of his adventures in the express. “I can go one better than a special,” averred Oswyn; “my car’s outside, ready for a run; come along; we’ll be at Hilton in about an hour.” “That’s the style!” cried Haverly. “I’ll be a heap in your debt for this, Frank.” CHAPTER II. HOW HAVERLY FOILED THE BOAT-STEALERS. WITHIN a few seconds the two men were flying between the hedges of a country road, with the powerful engines of Oswyn’s “Panhard” throbbing beneath them. “Say,” the Yankee asked, after a few moments’ travelling, “how far do you reckon it?” “About forty-five miles to Hilton Manor,” was the response. “What speed have you got on?” was Haverly’s next question. “Forty,” returned Oswyn. “I guess she’ll do better than that. Chuck the lever over.” “It’s risky in the dark,” warned Oswyn, yet he obeyed his companion’s order notwithstanding. Beneath the added power the car leapt forward like a thing of life, her monstrous headlights glaring through the gloom like the eyes of some huge animal. Her every bolt and rivet quivered and sang with the throbbing of the mighty cylinders. She was a veritable projectile, yet the doctor’s hand was as steady as a rock as he gripped the wheel. Presently Haverly consulted his watch. “Is she doing all she knows?” he asked. “Every inch,” was the reply. “Great Scott! You surely don’t want her to do any more? We’re going over fifty now. What would happen if we struck an obstruction?” The American smiled grimly. “I guess we’re going to strike nothing this side of Hilton,” he remarked. “We’ll do the striking when we arrive.” Round sharp corners they whirled on two wheels, the other pair high in the air. A hundred times the car seemed like to overturn, yet somehow the catastrophe which appeared inevitable never happened. Always, at the last moment, Oswyn’s consummate skill and his knowledge of the road saved the situation. The dark stretch of road trailed swiftly away behind them as the moments flew by, and once again Haverly drew forth his watch. “How much further?” he questioned.