It wanted some nerve to stand there, but nerve was a quality possessed by Anthony Barraclough. He never moved an inch and in his left hand held the pistol levelled at the approaching car.
"I'll fire," he cried.
He saw the driver snatch at his brakes, the steel studs tore up the surface of the road as the car, a small two-seater, came to a standstill within a foot of where he stood.
Then happened an amazing thing. A woman sprang out and ran toward him crying:
"Anthony—you!"
His eyes were dazzled by the head lights, but his memory for voices was not dulled. He leapt back a clear five feet and presented the pistol full in her face.
"I know you," he said. "You're Auriole Craven. But if you or any of that damn crowd try to stop me——"
"No, no, no," she cried. "I'm with you—not against. What on earth are you doing here?"
"Doing? I'd almost done it. Smashed up in the final sprint. I want a seat in your car. Must get to London tonight."
"To London. No. It wouldn't be safe—it wouldn't be fair."