The suburbs were soon left behind, and as soon as the gyro-car came into the main Dover Road, away from the bewildering traffic of London, he increased the speed to twenty miles an hour.
“Remember the limit,” said Maurice warningly. “We don’t want to be held up.”
“We’ll chance it,” replied George. “In any case, they’ll only take our name and address, and the Government won’t mind paying the fine, I fancy.”
The gyro-car ran with much less noise than a motor-cycle, and being also much less cumbersome than an ordinary motor-car, it was able to travel at a high speed without attracting too much attention. Its unusual shape did indeed arouse a certain curiosity and excitement among pedestrians and carmen, but they were more interested in the vehicle itself than in any calculation of its speed. There might, of course, be police traps on the road, but it was probable that before the police became aware of the approach of a car at excessive speed, it would have shot past them.
When they had passed through Gravesend, George ventured to increase the speed to thirty-five miles.
“I can get eighty or more out of it, if you like,” he said, and in truth he was itching to put it to its maximum speed, in defiance of all regulations.
“I am quite satisfied as it is,” said Maurice with a smile. “We are going faster than the ordinary train, and there’s no pursuit.”
Here and there the speed had to be reduced in order to avoid the traffic, but the narrowness of the vehicle enabled it to pass with much less delay than a motor-car.
“We’re nearly halfway,” said George, as he slowed down on approaching Sittingbourne. “I say, old man, why shouldn’t I take you all the way to Brindisi?”
“My dear fellow——”