They turned into the Cornwall road. At a rise Robin saw the other car with its bareheaded driver tearing after them.
"Oh, he's coming," she moaned, sinking down into the seat.
"Say, Miss Forsyth——I'm keen——on—running——away—but what—the—deuce—from? Who's that——fellow——following—us——why are you——afraid?" He flung the words jerkily, sideways, at Robin.
"I'll tell you—afterwards," Robin gasped back. The wind whistled past her, she lost her hat. She crouched in her seat, her hands clinging tightly to the box, her head turned as though expecting their pursuer to overtake them any moment.
Suddenly Tom frowned. At the same time the engine gave a grating "b-r-r-r."
"Oh, what is it?"
"Oil's getting low——Bad——" she caught in answer. "Pulling some——I'll——fool him, though—" He slowed down.
"Don't—" implored Robin.
"We'll turn down this road. He'll go straight on. Clever, eh? Say, I wouldn't have guessed you had all this spunk in you!" he took the time to say, casting her an admiring glance.
He made the turn and the "baby" ploughed through the soft rough road at a perilous clip. The road wound through thickly wooded hills, up and down, apparently leading to nowhere.