r as a chauffeur was at stake. His blood was up. His knowledge
had begun to work in him and he adored his master. He knew what he was
trying to do.

We could do it if we kept our heads; if we exceeded the speed limit; if
we had luck; if we didn't break down; if neither the county constabulary
nor the country traffic held us up.

Kendal declared we could do it easily and allow for accidents. At Horsham
Junction you have nearly half an hour to wait between the arrival of the
Midhurst and Selham train and the departure of the London express. And
the local trains take more than half an hour to get from Selham to
Horsham. At a pinch you could speed the car up to the limit of the local
train. And, as we had to allow for accidents, we did speed her up
whenever we saw a clean track before us.

The run to Selham was nothing to it. It was as if we were racing the
train with its three minutes start, as if, positively, we might overtake
it at any of the intermediate stations, as if it were in this hope that
we dashed up the long white slope to Petworth.

The heat of the day gathered over our heads and smouldered in the east.

And as we ran I realized at last why we were running and what the race
was and the hunt, and what our quarry. I remembered that other slower
chase that was yet so keen and so agonizing; that hunting down of the
same tender flesh and blood, over the Channel and across a foreign
country. That was bad enough; but it was not like this. For then I was
alone in my hunting of Viola; there was nobody but me, who loved her, to
see her run to earth and caught crouching in her corner. That she would
crouch, this time, and hide herself, I had no doubt. This hunt that I
shared with her sister and her servant was abominable to me and shameful.
And between the shame of that flight of hers and this flight there was no
comparison. You don't go looking at belfries with Charlie Thesiger. I
could not reconcile that enchanting and enchanted Viola of the garden of
Bruges with this dreadful flying figure.

I hated myself; I hated Kendal, the chauffeur, as I sat behind his tight,
efficient body that quivered with the fury of the hunt. (To think that
_his_ blood should be up and against Viola!) I hated the car that seemed
more than ever a living thing, that breathed and snorted and vibrated
with the same passion, and was endowed with this incredible speed and
this superhuman power. With its black nose and white flanks, and its
b