"Not at all," said Farnworth, with a grin. "It's Government petrol I'm using, you know, and I'm not due at Liverpool until eight to-night. Do it on my head, so to speak. And you?"
"Just off to the station, old man," replied Sefton. "Want to get home to-night."
"Southampton? I doubt it, old bird. You've missed the express to King's Cross. No, I'm not to blame. It had gone long before you tried to commit hara-kiri under my car. Look here; hop in and I'll drop you at Manchester in plenty of time to pick up the through train."
Sefton accepted the invitation with alacrity. Being whisked through the air in a comfortable car was infinitely to be preferred to being cooped up in a railway-carriage after a tedious wait in a draughty station.
The ninety odd miles to Halifax was covered in two hours and a half, for, on the open road, Farnworth let the car all out, only slowing down while passing through the big industrial towns that lay on his route.
"Now for a ripping stretch of country," exclaimed Farnworth enthusiastically. "Something to blow the cobwebs away, don't you know. I always take this road in preference to the Hebden Bridge way. It's steeper, but the car can do it hands down."
Up and up, with very little reduction of speed, the high-powered car climbed. Sefton, drowsy for lack of sufficient sleep and from the effects of the strong air, failed to share his companion's enthusiasm. Lulled by the rhythmic purr of the motor-car, he was fast becoming oblivious to his surroundings when Farnworth gave him a violent shake with his disengaged hand.
"What's wrong?" enquired Sefton.
"Scrap," replied his chum laconically. "Something more than a dog-fight. What?" he muttered under his breath as he pulled up.
Twenty yards from the road was an overturned car. Close to it lay a khaki-clad figure, while engaged in a desperate struggle were two pairs of interlocked combatants. Approaching them with stealthy steps was a short, thickset, bullet-headed man holding an automatic pistol.