“No?” panted Mr. Priestley politely. “But it—would have done—oof—’f I—had. Oh, oof!”
A minute or two was devoted to Mr. Priestley’s pursuit of his lost breath.
“Well, Mr. Mullins,” Laura then remarked brightly, “now perhaps you’ll tell me what is the next move?”
“To get rid of this infernal handcuff,” said Mr. Priestley without hesitation.
“Yes, I’d thought of that too. But how?”
“File it off!” returned Mr. Priestley promptly. “Have you got a file in your tool-box?”
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t. Oh, Mr. Mullins, this is a terrible business! What are we to do?” The look of appealing helplessness that Laura turned on her fellow-adventurer was not what might have been expected from a young woman who had just been driving a car at nearly fifty miles an hour along an unlighted road.
Fortunately Mr. Priestley was in no state to notice such discrepancies. “Don’t you worry, my dear young lady,” he said paternally. “You shall come to no harm. Now, let me see, is there any other way we can arrange ourselves? I really think we should push on a little farther before we see about getting hold of a file, and this running-board is really a most uncomfortable way of travelling. How can we manage?”
“Supposing you knelt in front of the seat with your back to the engine?” suggested Laura. “We might be able to manage like that.”
“Humph,” replied Mr. Priestley, to whom the idea did not seem to appeal. “No, Mrs. Spettigue, I think —by the way, I suppose you’re not Mrs. Spettigue now?”