"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.

"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.