"Now drive like Hell!" said McTaggart.
The man needed no second bidding.
Off they swept, past the church, up and up towards the sky.
McTaggart leaned back with a sigh as the shouts died away behind them. Jill was there—safe—beside him. He thanked God for the fact. Also for a good fight, as he looked down at his bleeding knuckles.
"Well—Jill?" he turned to her. "You all right?"
But she started up, with a shrill cry:
"Peter—your face!..."
Her grey eyes were wide with fear. She gave a little gasp, relaxed, and fell back in a dead faint. For her brave spirit had failed her at last. The sight of the blood still trickling down from the open cut on his smeared cheek had finished the strain on her overwrought nerves. Nature, outraged, had claimed her due, sending oblivion to the spirit in the interest of the taxed flesh.
"Jill—what is it?" McTaggart, frightened, bent over her white face. Mechanically he wiped his own, conscious at last of his injury.
The chauffeur turned his head at the cry.