"Nay, I fear them not," said the intrepid Fitzclarence. "Enough for me is the light of thine eyes."
Suddenly their steeds slackened pace simultaneously, and a faint hissing sound was heard. They looked at one another, and groaned.
"We are punctured!" cried Agatha. It was too true. At the foot of a steep hill they dismounted, their tyres flabby, shapeless, useless. Fitsclarence passed his hand over the ground.
"He vanished over the cliff."
"As I thought!" he said bitterly, "'tis thy father that hath contrived this! He hath scattered tin-tacks broadcast over the road to foil our attempt to escape! But we will baffle him yet."
For some minutes he worked his air-pump in silence. Suddenly a sound was heard at which Agatha grew deathly pale. It was the clear resonant note of a bicycle bell!
"We are pursued!" she cried. "Let us fly, Algernon."
"We cannot," said her practical lover; "the tyres are almost empty. We can but meet our doom bravely!"
Louder and louder came the noise of whirring wheels. Then—a whirr, and the Baron, breathless, pale with terror, went by them like a flash of lightning! Fitzclarence understood in a moment what had happened. The Baron was but an unskilful rider, and had allowed his machine to run away with him down the hill!