“Question of luck.” He opened the cut-out again; roared under Taplow Railway-viaduct. So far, road had been almost empty. Now, other cars appeared ahead. The Crossley raced them down the Bath Road; passed them one by one. Slough vanished. Something honked behind them; honked again. Peter, wheels almost on turf, was aware of a Rolls-Royce bonnet, of a dark-blue car sweeping by; caught a glimpse of Arthur, in sky-blue Air Service uniform, sitting rigid at the wheel. . . .
Crossley gathered way; Klaxon barked furiously; Rolls-Royce swerved; Peter, grin on his face, shot past. Beatrice, peering over the back of the cabriolet, saw Arthur’s eyes light; saw his hand move slowly on the wheel. Then the Rolls-Royce was on them; creeping up, effortless, silent. . . . Honk, honk, honk. “Drat the fellow,” muttered Peter. For a mile, he refused way; then Arthur, with two inches to spare, purred calmly by; recognized Peter with a wave of the hand—and disappeared in dust. . . .
Still, they made Hounslow by half-past ten; edged warily over tram-lines; pulled up for a second to avoid disaster.
“Hope you’re not joy-riding, sir,” grinned a blue-helmeted constable.
“Joy-riding!”—Peter, hand on gear lever, grinned back scornfully—“do we look as if we were joy-riding!” Francis, peeping overside, was understood to mutter something about, “bringing the good news from Aix to Ghent.” . . .
None of the four quite remembers how they made the last lap to London. It comes back to them as a jerking, fidgety dream—houses, tram-lines, motor-omnibuses; a scrap of clear straight road here; turns there; people staring, people cursing; shop-windows in which they saw themselves skidding past; dogs diving for cover; scream of Klaxon, jar of gear-lever, throb of engine. . . . “Time?”, Peter kept asking. “Time, Pat?” . . . “Ten-thirty-five.” . . . “Ten-forty.” . . . “Quarter to, all but ten seconds.” . . . “Damn it, we must make Piccadilly by eleven o ’clock.” . . . More houses. . . . A saloon. . . . Francis, head down in the tonneau, groping for his flags, hitting his head against the back of the driving-seat. . . . “Twelve minutes to eleven.” . . . Beatrice, eyes on Peter’s cap, muttering to herself, “He’ll never do it. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t do it.” . . .
“Five to!” called Patricia—and Fulham Road streamed out behind as they zig-zagged in and out among sparse traffic. . . .
“Three minutes.” . . . “What was that? Oh, yes, Harrods. Good old Harrods.” . . . “Two minutes more.” . . . The Hyde Park Hotel whizzed by. . . . Railings. . . . A clear road. . . . Hyde Park Corner ahead . . . and:—
“Done it, I think,” remarked our Mr. Jameson, as a motor-bus, swaying out of Park Lane, missed their rear mud-guards by the grace of God and two inches. . . .
Thut of cylinders dropped to steady purr. Clubland on their left, railings on their right, slackened speed; grew steady and perceptible. Traffic, through which the Crossley threaded easy way, appeared all round them. . . . They were in Piccadilly! . . .