“Look here,” he protested, “we haven’t come all this way to turn back.  You don’t look like a coward.”

“I am not a coward, sir,” was the quiet answer.  “Neither am I a fool.  I don’t see any use in risking our lives and my master’s motor-car, because you want to get home.”

“Naturally,” Gerald answered calmly, “but remember this.  I am responsible for your car—­not you.  Mr. Fentolin is my uncle.”

The chauffeur nodded shortly.

“You’re Mr. Gerald Fentolin, aren’t you, sir?” he remarked.  “I thought I recognised you.”

“I am,” Gerald admitted.  “We’ve had a rough journey, but it doesn’t seem sense to turn back now, does it, with the house in sight?”

“That’s all very well, sir,” the chauffeur objected doubtfully, “but I don’t believe the road’s even passable, and the floods seem to me to be rising.”

“Try it,” the young man begged.  “Look here, I don’t want to bribe you, or anything of that sort.  You know you’re coming out of this well.  It’s a serious matter for me, and I shan’t be likely to forget it.  I want to take this gentleman to St. David’s Hall and not to a hospital.  You’ve brought me here so far like a man.  Let’s go through with it.  If the worst comes to the worst, we can both swim, I suppose, and we are not likely to get out of our depth.”

The chauffeur moved his head backwards.

“How about him?”

“He must take his chance,” Gerald replied.  “He’s all right where he is.  The car won’t upset and there are plenty of people who’ll see if we get into trouble.  Come, let’s make a dash for it.”

The chauffeur thrust in his clutch and settled himself down.  They glided off along that winding stretch of road.  To its very edge, on either side of them, so close that they could almost touch it, came the water, water which stretched as far as they could see, swaying, waveless, sinister-looking.  Even Gerald, after his first impulse of wonder, kept his eyes averted and fixed upon the road ahead.  Soon they reached a place where the water met in front.  There were only the rows of white palings on either side to guide them.  The chauffeur muttered to himself as he changed to his first speed.

“If the engine gets stopped,” he said, “I don’t know how we shall get out of this.”

They emerged on the other side.  For some time they had a clear run.  Then suddenly the driver clapped on his brakes.

“My God!” he cried.  “We can’t get through that!”

In front of them for more than a hundred yards the water seemed suddenly to have flowed across the road.  Still a mile distant, perched on a ridge of that strangely-placed hill, was their destination.

“It can’t be done, sir!” the man groaned.  “There isn’t a car ever built could get through that.  See, it’s nearly up to the top of those posts.  I must put her in the reverse and get back, even if we have to wait on the higher part of the road for a boat.”