“Dear Monty,” I read, “Molly and I have a bet on.  She has bet me a dinner that you will drive her car out to Madrid, and meet us at half-past seven, so that we can have the dinner by daylight.  I have bet her the same dinner that you won’t.  Which of us must pay?—­Yours, Jack.”

I whistled.  What, drive the car through the traffic of Paris?  It must be a joke.  Of course it was a joke, but——­

When I had dressed for dinner, I strolled over to the garage not far away where the creature lurked.  Anyhow, I would have a look at her, and see what orders Gotteland had received.  Yes, of course it was a joke.  Or else my poor friends had gone mad.  Still, there was a kind of madness with method in it.  Diabolical wretches, with their bets, and their dinners!  Did they dream I would try to do it, and smash the car?  “Nothing like driving a motor through traffic, to give one self-confidence afterwards,” Jack had said yesterday, after praising me for refraining from killing a small boy in a village street.  “Once a man has been thrown on his own resources, and has got through the ordeal all right, it is as good as a certificate,” he had added.

Gotteland was in the shrine of his goddess, talking to other cosmopolitan-looking persons in leather.  There was a nice smell of petrol in the place.  I snuffed at it as a war-horse scents the battle, and promptly decided that the joke should become deadly earnest, no matter what the consequence to the cart the chauffeur, or myself.

“Everything is ready, my lord,” said one of the sacrifices about to be offered up.  He had now discovered that there was a sort of starting-handle to my name, and seemed as fond of using it as he was of the equivalent on his beloved motor.

“Did Mr. Winston—­er—­say anything about my driving?” I humbly inquired.

“Well, my lord, his orders were that it should be as you pleased.  But perhaps I had better mention that driving is careless in Paris, with cabs and automobiles all over the road, to say nothing of the trams; and then there’s the keeping to the right instead of the left.  If you should happen to get a little confused, my lord, not being accustomed to drive in France——­”

“I wish I had a mille note for every time I’ve driven a four-in-hand through this blessed town,” said I.  “I’m not afraid if you’re not.”

“Oh, my lord, I’ve been in so many accidents, one or two more can’t matter,” he replied, as Hercules might have replied if asked whether he were equal to a Thirteenth Labour in odd moments.  “When I was jockey in Count Tokai’s racing stables, a horse went mad and kicked me nearly to death.  Then I was a racer in old bicycling days, and had several bad spills.  This scar on my face I got in a smash with one of the first Benz cars made.  My master thought it a fine thing at that time to go ten miles an hour, and before he’d driven much, my lord, he was determined to take the car through the streets of Duesseldorf himself.  There was a wagon coming one way——­”