“Goodness, isn’t it thrilling!  And when do we get to Omegon?”

“Little after seven in the morning.  My cousin will meet us in a hack and drive us straight to the church.  His wife will go with us as the extra witness.  By eight o’clock we’ll be married.  Derby will be on the train with us.  He’s a full-fledged preacher now, and he’ll marry us without a whimper.”

“Oh,” she sighed deliciously, in spite of the jarring of the motor, “isn’t it nice to have old college chums who can be depended upon?”

“Poor old Windomshire,” he laughed in the buoyancy of conquest.

“I don’t think he’ll—–­” She stopped.

“What?”

“Care very much,” she concluded.  He laughed doubtingly.

Mile after mile the car traversed the misty night, jolting over the ruts in the lane, taking the hills blindly—­driven entirely by the hand of Good Luck.

Suddenly the “honk, honk!” of an invisible motor struck upon their tense ears, the sound coming from some point ahead in the black, narrow lane.  Dauntless sat straight and peered ahead, sounding his horn sharply.

“I hope no one is coming toward us,” he groaned, slowing up sharply.  “We never can pass in this confounded lane.  If we get off into the soft ground—­Hello!  Here he comes—­and no lights either!  Hey!  Look out!” He brought his car to an abrupt standstill.

“Where are we, Joe?” she cried.

“Near the crossroads, I’m sure.  Curse an idiot that runs around without lights on a night like this,” he growled, forgetting that his own lamps were dark.

Out of the misty blackness loomed another car, directly ahead.  It had come to a sudden stop not ten feet away.  Both cars were tooting their horns viciously.

“Where are your lights?” roared Dauntless.

“Where are yours?” came back angrily through the fog.

“Good Lord!” gasped Joe, panic-stricken.

“It’s Mr. Windomshire,” whispered Eleanor, in consternation.

Before she realised what was happening her companion lifted her bodily over the back of the seat and deposited her in the bed of the tonneau.

“Hide, dearest,” he whispered.  “Get under the storm blankets.  He must not see you!  I’ll—­I’ll bluff it out some way.”

“Wha—­what is he doing out here in a machine?” she was whispering wildly.  “He is pursuing us!  He has found out!”

In the other car Windomshire—­for it was the tall Englishman—­was hoarsely whispering to some one beside him: 

“It’s Dauntless!  Hang him!  What’s he doing here?” Then followed a hurried scuffling and subdued whispers.  A long silence, fraught with an importance which the throbbing of the two engines was powerless to disturb, followed the mutual discovery.  Joe’s brain worked the quicker.  Disguising his voice as best he could, he shouted through the fog: 

“We can’t pass here.”

“Is—­is this Cobberly Road?” cried Windomshire, striving to obtain what he considered the American twang.