Kirkwood bent forward and touched Brentwick on the shoulder; the latter turned to him a face lined with deep concern.
"Trouble," he announced superfluously. "I fear we have blundered."
"What is it?" asked Dorothy in a troubled voice.
"Petrol seems to be running low. Charles here" (he referred to the mechanician) "says the tank must be leaking. We'll go on as best we can and try to find an inn. Fortunately, most of the inns nowadays keep supplies of petrol for just such emergencies."
"Are we—? Do you think—?"
"Oh, no; not a bit of danger of that," returned Brentwick hastily. "They'll not catch up with us this night. That is a very inferior car they have,—so Charles says, at least; nothing to compare with this. If I'm not in error, there's the Crown and Mitre just ahead; we'll make it, fill our tanks, and be off again before they can make up half their loss."
Dorothy looked anxiously to Kirkwood, her lips forming an unuttered query: What did he think?
"Don't worry; we'll have no trouble," he assured her stoutly; "the chauffeur knows, undoubtedly."
None the less he was moved to stand up in the tonneau, conscious of the presence of the traveling bag, snug between his feet, as well as of the weight of Calendar's revolver in his pocket, while he stared back along the road.
There was nothing to be seen of their persecutors.