“My God!” he exclaimed. “Here’s more trouble!”
Gerald for a moment was speechless. They seemed to have come suddenly upon a huge plain of waters, an immense lake reaching as far as they could see on either side. The road before them stretched like a ribbon for the next three miles. Here and there it disappeared and reappeared again. In many places it was lapped by little waves. Everywhere the hedges were either altogether or half under water. In the distance was one farmhouse, only the roof of which was visible, and from which the inhabitants were clambering into a boat. And beyond, with scarcely a break save for the rising of one strangely-shaped hill, was the sea. Gerald pointed with his finger.
“There’s St. David’s Hall,” he said, “on the other side of the hill. The road seems all right.”
“Does it!” the chauffeur grunted. “It’s under water more than half the way, and Heaven knows how deep it is at the sides! I’m not going to risk my life along there. I am going to take the car back to Holt.”
His hand was already upon the reverse lever, but Gerald gripped it.
“Look here,” he protested, “we haven’t come all this way to turn back. You don’t look like a coward.”
“I am not a coward, sir,” was the quiet answer. “Neither am I a fool. I don’t see any use in risking our lives and my master’s motor-car, because you want to get home.”
“Naturally,” Gerald answered calmly, “but remember this. I am responsible for your car—not you. Mr. Fentolin is my uncle.”
The chauffeur nodded shortly.
“You’re Mr. Gerald Fentolin, aren’t you, sir?” he remarked. “I thought I recognised you.”