Silence closed in again, as the red tail-light vanished around a bend. The gray car's driver nodded curtly to the stupefied youth in the middle of the road.
"Unless you want to stay here all night, you'd better get in the machine," he suggested. "My name's Lestrange—I suppose yours is Ffrench?"
"Dick Ffrench. But, see here, you mean well, but I'm going with my cousin. I'd like a drive with you, but I'm busy."
"You're not fit to go with your cousin."
"Not—"
"Fit," completed Lestrange definitely. "Can you hang on somewhere, Rupert?"
"I can," Rupert assured, with an inflection of his own. "Get your friend aboard."
Lestrange was already in his seat, waiting.
"What's that for?" asked the dazed guest, as, on taking his place, a strap was slipped around his waist, securing him to the seat.
"So you won't fall out," soothed the grinning Rupert. "You ain't well, you know. Not that I'd care if you did, but somebody might blame Darling."