"I'll see, sir," and the chauffeur went to the house.
Furneaux had estimated Hilton Fenley correctly in ascribing to him the quality of cold-bloodedness. Ninety-nine men among a hundred would have appropriated the motor car then and there, but Fenley saw by waiting a minute and displaying the requisite coolness he might succeed in throwing his pursuers off the trail for some hours.
Stern came. It chanced that he was watching a good patient through a crisis, and would be detained until daybreak.
"Hello, Hilton," he cried. "What's up now, and what's the racket in the park?"
Fenley explained, but hurried to the vital matter.
"My car is out of action," he said. "I was going to the Easton garage to hire one when I saw yours standing here. Lend it to me for a couple of hours; there's a good fellow. I'll pay well for the use of it."
"Pay? Nonsense! Jump in! Take Mr. Fenley where he wants to go, Tom. Where to first, Hilton?"
"St. Albans. I'm exceedingly obliged. And look here, Stern, I insist on paying."
"We can settle that afterwards. Off with you. I'll walk home, Tom."
Away sped the car. Running through Easton, Fenley saw two policemen stationed at a cross-road. They signaled the car to stop, and his blood curdled, but, in the same instant, they saw the chauffeur's face; the other occupant was cowering as far back in the shadow as possible.