When Abbershaw and Campion burst upon the scene the first moment of stupefied horror was barely over.
Martin Watt’s voice rang out clearly above the growing murmur of anger.
‘The garage . . . quickly!’ he shouted, and almost before the last word had left his lips there was the sound of an engine ‘revving’ violently. Then the great doors were shattered open, and the big Lanchester dived out like a torpedo. There were three men in it, the driver, Dawlish, and Gideon. Guffy Randall sprang into his saddle, and, followed by five or six of the younger spirits, set off at a gallop across the turf. Their intention was obvious. With reasonable luck they could expect to cut off the car at a point some way up the drive.
Campion shouted to them warningly, but his voice was lost in the wind of their speed, and he turned to Abbershaw, his face pale and twisted with horror.
‘They don’t realize!’ he said, and the doctor was struck with the depth of feeling in his tone. ‘Von Faber won’t stop for anything – those horses! God! Look at them now!’
Guffy Randall and his band had drawn their horses up across the road in the way of the oncoming car.
Campion shouted to them wildly, but they did not seem to hear. Every eye in the field was upon them as the great grey car shot on, seeming to gather speed at every second.
Campion stood rigidly, his arm raised above his head.
‘He’ll charge ’em,’ he murmured, and suddenly ducked as though unable to look any longer. Abbershaw, too, in that moment when it seemed inevitable that men and horseflesh must be reduced to one horrible bloody mêlée, blinked involuntarily. They had reckoned without horsemanship, however; just when it seemed that no escape were possible the horses reared and scattered, but as the car swept between them Guffy’s lean young form shot down and his crop caught the driver full across the face.
The car leapt forward, swerved over the narrow turf border into a small draining ditch, and, with a horrible sickening grind of smashing machinery, overturned.