The car rose to the brow, and Mr. Belford mounted recklessly beside the chauffeur, peering ahead under arched palms over the moon-bathed country-side.
"There they are! There they are! We shall overtake them at the old farm!"
His excitement was intensely contagious. Sheffield, who had been wedged upon the footboard, rose unsteadily, and, supporting himself with difficulty, looked along the gleaming ribbon of road.
There they were! The grey car was clearly discernible now, and even at that distance he could estimate something of her progress. He exulted to note that capture was becoming merely a question of minutes!
Then came a doubt. Suppose it should prove to be the wrong car!
Nearer they drew, and nearer.
The fugitives topped a slope, and against the blue sky was silhouetted a figure which stood upright in the car—the figure of a big man with raised arms and out-turned elbows. He was peering back, just as Belford was peering forward.
"Look at his bowler hat!" yelled Sheffield. "Why, it might be me!"
"It might!" shouted Mr. Belford; "but it isn't! It's Séverac Bablon!"
A wood dipped down to the roadside, and its shadows ate up their quarry; a breathless, nervous interval, and its glooms enveloped Mr. Belford's party in turn. From out of the darkness the road ahead was clearly visible. Deserted farm buildings lay scattered in their path where the trees ended.