Richard Frencham Altar stood alone, blinking rather stupidly at the havoc he had wrought. It was such a relief when Flora stole out of the shadow of the trees and came toward him.
"What a shemozzle, isn't it?" he said dazedly. "I think we'd better get out of this, don't you?"
He wheeled the motor cycle into the centre of the road and bade her jump up behind.
Folks who were returning home late that night were astonished to see a hatless man with a white unshaved face tearing through the side streets of the south-west district of London on a motor cycle with a pretty, but very dishevelled maiden clinging on to the Flapper bracket and deliriously shouting apparently for no better reason than joy of speed.
An old gentleman who signed himself "Commonsense" wrote to the papers about it next day and expressed his disgust in no measured terms.
CHAPTER 34.
THE FINISHING STRAIGHT.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Torrington. "We have an important decision to make. Barraclough is on his way home, presumably with the concession in his pocket. Our opponents have made certain dispositions to prevent his safe arrival—those dispositions they are prepared to remove in consideration of a third interest."
Cassis snorted violently. Actual propinquity with danger, the clash of mind against mind had in a large measure restored his self-possession.
"Preposterous," he ejaculated.