“One word, Helena,” said Buntingford, laying a hand on her arm, when all was ready, and she was about to climb into her seat.  “Remember I am in command of the expedition—­and for all our sakes there must be no divided authority.  You agree?”

She looked up quietly.

“I agree.”

He made way for her, and she took her seat with him beside her.  French, Lodge, Jones the butler, and Tomline the odd man, got in behind her.  Mrs. Friend appeared with a food hamper that she and Mrs. Mawson had been rapidly packing.  Her delicate little face was very pale, and Buntingford stooped to reassure her.

“We’ll take every care of her.  Don’t be alarmed.  It’s always a woman comes to the rescue, isn’t it?  We’re all ashamed.  I shall take some lessons next week!”

Helena, with her hand on the steering wheel, nodded and smiled to her, and in another minute the splendid car was gliding out of the garage yard, and flying through the park.

Cynthia, with Mrs. Friend, Lady Maud Luton, and Mrs. Mawson, were left looking after them.  Cynthia’s expression was hard to read; she seemed to be rushing on with the car, watching the face beside Buntingford, the young hands on the wheel, the keen eyes looking ahead, the play of talk between them.

“What a splendid creature!” said Lady Maud half-unwillingly, as she and Cynthia walked back to the lawn.  “I’m afraid I don’t at all approve of her in ordinary life.  But just now—­she was in her element.”

“Mother, you must let me learn motoring!” cried the girl of seventeen, hanging on her mother’s arm.  She was flushed with innocent envy.  Helena driving Lord Buntingford seemed to her at the top of creation.

“Goose!  It wouldn’t suit you at all,” said the mother, smiling.  “Please take my prayer-book indoors.”

The babe went obediently.

The miles ran past.  Helena, on her mettle, was driving her best, and Buntingford had already paid her one or two brief compliments, which she had taken in silence.  Presently they topped a ridge, and there lay Dansworth in a hollow, a column of smoke gashed with occasional flame rising above the town.

“A big blaze,” said Buntingford, examining it through a field-glass.  “It’s the large brewery in the market-place.  Hullo, you there!” He hailed a country cart, full of excited occupants, which was being driven rapidly towards them.  The driver pulled up with difficulty.

Buntingford jumped out and went to make enquiries.

“It’s a bad business, Sir,” said the man in charge of the cart, a small farmer whom Buntingford recognized.  “The men in it are just mad—­they don’t know what they’ve done, nor why they’ve done it.  But the soldiers will be there directly.  There’s far too few police, and I’m afraid there’s some people hurt.  I wouldn’t take ladies into the town if I was you, Sir.”  He glanced at Helena.

Buntingford nodded, and returned to the car.