Orme was unharmed. “Are you all right, Bessie? he asked.
“All right.” Her voice was cheery.
He leaped to the road. The chauffeur had descended and was hurrying to the front of the car.
“What was it?” asked Orme.
“Someone pushed a wheelbarrow into the road just as we were coming.”
“A wheelbarrow!”
“Yes, sir. There it is.”
Orme looked at the wheelbarrow. It was wedged under the front of the car. He peered off into the field at the left. Dimly he could see a running figure, and he hastily climbed the rail fence and started in pursuit.
It was a hard sprint. The running man was fast on his feet, but his speed did not long serve him, for he stumbled and fell. He did not rise, and Orme, coming up, for the moment supposed him to be stunned.
Bending over, he discovered that the prostrate man was panting hard, and digging his hands into the turf.