"Yes, but we stopped for a minute or two to tighten the strap of the tool-box on the edge of the town. And we started from there at eleven."
The motor-cyclist consulted his wrist-watch.
"Yes, it's twenty minutes to twelve now," he said. "But forty kilometres! I doubt if I have the essence. I think I must try the nearer road."
The second motor-cycle came out of the dust like a boat out of a sea mist and slowed down in turn at the side of them. The rider jumped out of his saddle, pushed his goggles up on to his forehead and joined in the conversation.
"That little road, Monsieur. It is not one of the national highways. That shows itself at a glance. But it is not so bad. From the stone bridge one can be at the Hôtel de Ville of Dijon in twenty-five minutes."
"I thank you," said the young man. "You will pardon me. I have been here for seven minutes, and I am expected."
He replaced his helmet, mounted his machine, and with a splutter and half a dozen explosions ran down into the bed of the valley.
The second cyclist readjusted his goggles.
"Will you go first, Madame?" he suggested. "Otherwise I give you my dust."
"Thank you!" said Betty with a smile, and she slipped in the clutch and started.