"Wait here."
The limousine was off.
"Left! left!" directed Mr. Belford, and the man swung sharply round the curve and into the lane bordering the gardens of Womsley Old Place.
"Right!"
They leapt about again, and were humming along a chalky white road.
"Left! Straight ahead! Make for the church! Open her out!"
The pursuit had commenced!
Some dormant trait in the blood of His Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department had risen above the surface of suave, polished courtesy which ordinarily passed for the character of the Right Hon. Walter Belford. The veneer was off, and this was a primitive Belford, kin of the Roger de Belfourd who had established the fortunes of the house. The eyes behind the pince-nez were hard and bright; the fine nostrils quivered with the joy of the chase; and the long, lean neck, protruding from the characteristically low collar, was strung up to whipcord tension.
"Let her go!" he shouted, his silvern hair streaming out grotesquely. "Cut through Church Lane!"
"It's an awful road, sir!" The chauffeur's voice was blown back in his teeth.