My impious eye wandered affectionately over familiar friends—­the old oak pews, almost chin-high, the Spanish organ, the reluctant gift of a proud galleon wrecked on the snarling coast ten miles away, the old “three-decker” with its dull crimson cushions and the fringed cloths that hung so stiffly.  A shaft of sunlight beat full on an old black hatchment, making known the faded quarterings, while, underneath, a slender panel of brass, but two years old, showed that the teaching of its grim forbear had not been vain.

For so fair a morning, Bilberry village had done well.  The church was two-thirds full, and, though there were many strange faces, it was pleasant here and there to recognize one we had known in the old days, and to learn from an involuntary smile that we had not been forgotten.

It was just after the beginning of the Second Lesson that we heard the engine start.  There was no mistaking the purr of our Rolls-Royce.  For a second the girls and Jonah and I stared at one another, panic-stricken.  Then with one impulse we all started instinctively to our feet.  As I left the pew I heard Daphne whisper, “Hsh!  We can’t all——­” and she and Jonah and Jill sank back twittering.  Berry’s eyes met mine for an instant as I stepped into the aisle.  They spoke volumes, but to his eternal credit his voice never faltered.

I almost ran to the porch, and I reached the lich-gate to see our beautiful car, piloted by a man in a grey hat, scudding up the straight white road, while in her wake tore a gesticulating trooper, shouting impotently, ridiculously out-distanced.  Even as I watched, the car flashed round a bend and disappeared.

For a moment I stood still in the middle of the road, stupefied.  Then I heard a horn sounded behind me, and I mechanically stepped to one side.  Fifty yards away was the two-seater we had encountered on our way to church.

Frantically I signalled to the girl at the wheel.  As I did so, a burst of music signified that the Second Lesson had come to an end.

“Whatever’s the matter?” cried Miss Deriot, as she pulled up.

“Somebody’s pinched the Rolls.  Will you——­”

“Of course.  Get in.  Which way did they go?”

“Straight ahead,” said I, opening the door.

We were well under way before I had taken my seat.  As we came to the bend I threw a glance over my shoulder, to see four figures that I knew standing without the lich-gate.  They appeared to be arguing.  As we turned the corner a stentorian voice yelled—­

“The Bloodstock road, sir!  I can see their blinkin’ dust.”

Perched on one of the lower branches of a wayside oak, Will Noggin was pointing a shaking finger in the direction he named.

* * * * *

We were less than three miles from Bloodstock when the off hind tire burst.  Miss Deriot brought the car to the side of the road and stopped in the shadow of an old barn.