irst time into speech.

"What can they mean?" she cried out in a kind of temper; "this car's
going like a snail."

There was a short silence, and then Turnbull said: "It is certainly very
odd, you are driving quietly enough."

"You are driving nobly," said MacIan, and his words (which had no
meaning whatever) sounded hoarse and ungainly even in his own ears.

They passed the next mile and a half swiftly and smoothly; yet among the
many things which they passed in the course of it was a clump of eager
policemen standing at a cross-road. As they passed, one of the policemen
shouted something to the others; but nothing else happened. Eight
hundred yards farther on, Turnbull stood up suddenly in the swaying car.

"My God, MacIan!" he called out, showing his first emotion of that
night. "I don't believe it's the pace; it couldn't be the pace. I
believe it's us."

MacIan sat motionless for a few moments and then turned up at his
companion a face that was as white as the moon above it.

"You may be right," he said at last; "if you are, I must tell her."

"I will tell the lady if you like," said Turnbull, with his unconquered
good temper.

"You!" said MacIan, with a sort of sincere and instinctive astonishment.
"Why should you--no, I must tell her, of course----"

And he leant forward and spoke to the lady in the fur cap.

"I am afraid, madam, that we may have got you into some trouble," he
said, and even as he said it it sounded wrong, like everything he said
to this particular person in the long gloves. "The fact is," he resumed,
desperately, "the fact is, we are being chased by the police." Then
the last flattening hammer fell upon poor Evan's embarrassment; for the
fluffy brown head with the furry black cap did not turn by a section of
the compass.

"We are chased by the police," repeated MacIan, vigorously; then he
added, as if beginning an explanation, "You see, I am a Catholic."

The wind whipped back a curl of the brown hair so as to necessitate a
new theory of aesthetics touching the line of the cheek-bone; but the
head did not turn.

"You see," began MacIan, again blunderingly, "this gentleman wrote in
his newspaper that Our Lady was a common woman, a bad woman, and so we
agreed to fight; and we were fighting quite a little time ago--but that
was before we saw you."

The young lady driving her car had half turned her face to listen; and
it was not a reverent or a patient face that she showed him. Her