“Bad luck!” growled my uncle.  “But they can’t get away from us!” For the first time he touched the mares up, for he had but cracked the whip over their heads before.  “If we catch them in the next few miles we can spare them for the rest of the way.”

They were beginning to show signs of exhaustion.  Their breath came quick and hoarse, and their beautiful coats were matted with moisture.  At the top of the hill, however, they settled down into their swing once more.

“Where on earth have they got to?” cried my uncle.  “Can you make them out on the road, nephew?”

We could see a long white ribbon of it, all dotted with carts and waggons coming from Croydon to Redhill, but there was no sign of the big red four-in-hand.

“There they are!  Stole away!  Stole away!” he cried, wheeling the mares round into a side road which struck to the right out of that which we had travelled.  “There they are, nephew!  On the brow of the hill!”

Sure enough, on the rise of a curve upon our right the four-in-hand had appeared, the horses stretched to the utmost.  Our mares laid themselves out gallantly, and the distance between us began slowly to decrease.  I found that I could see the black band upon Sir John’s white hat, then that I could count the folds of his cape; finally, that I could see the pretty features of his wife as she looked back at us.

“We’re on the side road to Godstone and Warlingham,” said my uncle.  “I suppose he thought that he could make better time by getting out of the way of the market carts.  But we’ve got the deuce of a hill to come down.  You’ll see some fun, nephew, or I am mistaken.”

As he spoke I suddenly saw the wheels of the four-in-hand disappear, then the body of it, and then the two figures upon the box, as suddenly and abruptly as if it had bumped down the first three steps of some gigantic stairs.  An instant later we had reached the same spot, and there was the road beneath us, steep and narrow, winding in long curves into the valley.  The four-in-hand was swishing down it as hard as the horses could gallop.

“Thought so!” cried my uncle.  “If he doesn’t brake, why should I?  Now, my darlings, one good spurt, and we’ll show them the colour of our tailboard.”

We shot over the brow and flew madly down the hill with the great red coach roaring and thundering before us.  Already we were in her dust, so that we could see nothing but the dim scarlet blur in the heart of it, rocking and rolling, with its outline hardening at every stride.  We could hear the crack of the whip in front of us, and the shrill voice of Lady Lade as she screamed to the horses.  My uncle was very quiet, but when I glanced up at him I saw that his lips were set and his eyes shining, with just a little flush upon each pale cheek.  There was no need to urge on the mares, for they were already flying at a pace which could neither be stopped nor controlled.  Our leader’s head came abreast of the off hind wheel, then of the off front one—­then for a hundred yards we did not gain an inch, and then with a spurt the bay leader was neck to neck with the black wheeler, and our fore wheel within an inch of their hind one.