"He'll wire to Hitchin and have us there," said Smith. But he knew his roads. "Oh, will he?"
He took the right fork of the roads at Welwyn and roared through Stevenage to Baldock and found the main road again at Sandy. They reached Huntington, sixty miles from town, in an hour and three quarters.
"And I've never let her out but once," said Smith; "she's a daisy!"
The eighteen miles to Spilsborough they did at a speed that made Penelope bend her head. She felt wonderful: she was on a shooting-star. They slackened on the outskirts of the cathedral city and rolled through it delicately. She looked about her and remembered the dear bishop who had christened her when he was no more than a vicar.
"We'll go by Crowland and Spalding, Smith." A car followed them out of Spilsborough, and Smith, going easy, looked back and saw it.
"Catch us, my son," he said, contemptuously. But when they were well clear of town and he turned her loose, so to speak, Pen's nerve went, or it appeared to go.
"Don't go so fast, Smith," she commanded.
And Smith obeyed sorrowfully.
"They can't stand it," he said; "none of 'em can stand it really. They let on they can, but it's no go. A few hot miles gives them the mulligrubs."
But nevertheless they were running over thirty miles an hour. The car behind crawled up to them.