“No, it’s not.  It’s O’Brien’s Lane.”

Then, after a long silence, “Can’t you back out?”

“It’s rather—­I mean sorter risky, mister.  I don’t know how far I’d have to back, doncherknow—­er, ahem!”

“The crossroads can’t be more than a hundred yards behind you.  Where are you going?”

“I’m going for—­a doctor,” called Windomshire, hastily.

“Well, then, we ought not to stand here all night,” groaned Joe, his ears open to catch the sound of the locomotive’s whistle.  There was no time to be lost.

“I’ll—­I’ll try to back her out,” shouted Windomshire.  Eleanor whispered something shrilly and anxiously from the tonneau, and Joe called out instantly: 

“Who is ill?”

“Mrs.—­Mrs. Smith,” replied the other, bravely.

“Good!” exclaimed Dauntless, heartily.  Windomshire was not in the least annoyed by the lack of sympathy.  He began to drive his car backward by jerks and jolts, blindly trusting to luck in the effort to reach the road which he had passed in his haste a few minutes before.  Joe was shouting encouragement and pushing slowly forward in his own machine.  The noise of the engines was deafening.

“Hang it all, man, don’t blow your horn like that!” roared Windomshire at last, harassed and full of dread.  Joe, in his abstraction, was sounding his siren in a most insulting manner.

At last Windomshire’s wheels struck a surface that seemed hard and resisting.  He gave a shout of joy.

“Here we are!  It’s macadam!”

“Cobberly Road,” cried Joe.  “Back off to the right and let me run in ahead.  I’m—­I’m in a devil of a hurry.”

“By Gad, sir, so am I. Hi, hold back there!  Look out where you’re going, confound you!”

“Now for it,” cried Joe to Eleanor.  “We’ve got the lead; I’ll bet a bun he can’t catch us.”  He had deliberately driven across the other’s bows, as it were, scraping the wheel, and was off over Cobberly Road like the wind.  “Turn to your right at the next crossing,” he shouted back to Windomshire.  Then to himself hopefully:  “If he does that, he’ll miss Fenlock by three miles.”

They had covered two rash, terrifying miles before a word was spoken.  Then he heard her voice in his ear—­an anxious, troubled voice that could scarcely be heard above the rushing wind.

“What will we do if the train is late, dear?  He’ll be—­be sure to catch us.”

“She’s never late.  Besides, what if he does catch us?  We don’t have to go back, do we?  You’re of age.  Brace up; be a man!” he called back encouragingly.

“There are too many men as it is,” she wailed, sinking back into the tonneau.

“Here we are!” he shouted, as the car whizzed into a murky, dimly lighted street on the edge of Fenlock, the county seat.  “There are the station lights just ahead.”

“Is the train in?” she cried, struggling to her feet eagerly.

“I think not.”  He was slowing down.  A moment later the throbbing car came to a stop beside the railway station platform.  The lights blinked feebly through the mist; far off in the night arose the faint toot of a locomotive’s whistle.