The man had seen a constable in uniform fifty yards ahead, where a lane ran into the road, and would have said more but that Hinchcliffe jerked her up that lane with a wrench that nearly capsized us as the constable came running heavily. It seemed to me that both our guest and his fellow-villain in uniform smiled as we fled down the road easterly betwixt the narrowing hedges. “You’ll know all about it in a little time,” said our guest. “You’ve only yourselves to thank for runnin’ your ’ead into a trap.” And he whistled ostentatiously. We made no answer. “If that man ’ad chose, ’e could have identified me,” he said. Still we were silent. “But ’e’ll do it later, when you’re caught.” “Not if you go on talking. ’E won’t be able to,” said Pyecroft. “I don’t know what traverse you think you’re workin’, but your duty till you’re put in cells for a highway robber is to love, honour, an’ cherish _me_ most special—performin’ all evolutions signalled in rapid time. I tell you this, in case o’ anything turnin’ up.” “Don’t you fret about things turnin’ up,” was the reply. Hinchcliffe had given the car a generous throttle, and she was well set to work, when, without warning, the road—there are two or three in Sussex like it—turned down and ceased. “Holy Muckins!” he cried, and stood on both brakes as our helpless tyres slithered over wet grass and bracken—down and down into forest—early British woodland. It was the change of a nightmare, and that all should fit, fifty yards ahead of us a babbling brook barred our way. On the far side a velvet green ride, sprinkled with rabbits and fern, gently sloped upwards and away, but behind us was no hope. Forty horse-power would never have rolled wet pneumatic tyres up that verdurous cliff we had descended. “H’m!” Our guest coughed significantly. “A great many cars thinks they can take this road; but they all come back. We walks after ’em at our convenience.” “Meanin’ that the other jaunty is now pursuin’ us on his lily feet?” said Pyecroft. “_Pre_cisely.” “An’ you think,” said Pyecroft (I have no hope to render the scorn of the words), “_that’ll_ make any odds? Get out!” The man obeyed with alacrity. “See those spars up-ended over there? I mean that wickyup-thing. Hop-poles, then, you rural blighter. Keep on fetching me hop-poles at the double.” And he doubled, Pyecroft at his heels; for they had arrived at a perfect understanding. There was a stack of hurdles a few yards down stream, laid aside after sheep-washing; and there were stepping-stones in the brook. Hinchcliffe rearranged these last to make some sort of causeway; I brought up the hurdles; and when Pyecroft and his subaltern had dropped a dozen hop-poles across the stream, laid them down over all.