"Where are yours?" came back angrily through the fog.
"Good Lord!" gasped Joe, panic-stricken.
"It's Mr. Windomshire," whispered Eleanor, in consternation.
Before she realised what was happening her companion lifted her bodily over the back of the seat and deposited her in the bed of the tonneau.
"Hide, dearest," he whispered. "Get under the storm blankets. He must not see you! I'll—I'll bluff it out some way."
"Wha—what is he doing out here in a machine?" she was whispering wildly. "He is pursuing us! He has found out!"
In the other car Windomshire—for it was the tall Englishman—was hoarsely whispering to some one beside him:
"It's Dauntless! Hang him! What's he doing here?" Then followed a hurried scuffling and subdued whispers. A long silence, fraught with an importance which the throbbing of the two engines was powerless to disturb, followed the mutual discovery. Joe's brain worked the quicker. Disguising his voice as best he could, he shouted through the fog:
"We can't pass here."
"Is—is this Cobberly Road?" cried Windomshire, striving to obtain what he considered the American twang.