In a moment, Colonel Ellison and Pierre burst out of the wood, the former almost winded by his unusual exertions.
The pale moonlit road, as far as it could be seen, was deserted. No sound but the lowing of a cow away off in the distance broke the silence.
“Gone!” cried the Colonel, in a terrible voice.
“Gone!” echoed Pierre, weakly.
“You stupid jackanapes,” shouted Colonel Ellison, now completely overcome with wrath. “This is a pretty kettle of fish—a valuable machine stolen, and we stranded here on a lonely country road, miles from anywhere—a fine muddle you’ve put us in! How dare you look me in the face?”
“Oh, monsieur the Colonel.”
“Don’t moo-seer the Colonel me!” roared the angry gentleman, beginning to pace excitedly up and down.
“It’s terrible,” said Bates, after some moments had elapsed. “You’ll never see that whizzer again. Fine autos can’t be plucked from trees.”
“Monsieur the Colonel,” pleaded the unhappy chauffeur, “I hear you cry, ‘au secour’; and I say——”
“Silence!” thundered his master. “Redfern is responsible for this. He shall——”