the garage not far
away where the creature lurked. Anyhow, I would have a look at her,
and see what orders Gotteland had received. Yes, of course it was a
joke. Or else my poor friends had gone mad. Still, there was a kind of
madness with method in it. Diabolical wretches, with their bets, and
their dinners! Did they dream I would try to do it, and smash the car?
"Nothing like driving a motor through traffic, to give one
self-confidence afterwards," Jack had said yesterday, after praising
me for refraining from killing a small boy in a village street. "Once
a man has been thrown on his own resources, and has got through the
ordeal all right, it is as good as a certificate," he had added.

Gotteland was in the shrine of his goddess, talking to other
cosmopolitan-looking persons in leather. There was a nice smell of
petrol in the place. I snuffed at it as a war-horse scents the battle,
and promptly decided that the joke should become deadly earnest, no
matter what the consequence to the cart the chauffeur, or myself.

"Everything is ready, my lord," said one of the sacrifices about to be
offered up. He had now discovered that there was a sort of
starting-handle to my name, and seemed as fond of using it as he was
of the equivalent on his beloved motor.

"Did Mr. Winston--er--say anything about my driving?" I humbly
inquired.

"Well, my lord, his orders were that it should be as you pleased. But
perhaps I had better mention that driving is careless in Paris, with
cabs and automobiles all over the road, to say nothing of the trams;
and then there's the keeping to the right instead of the left. If you
should happen to get a little confused, my lord, not being accustomed
to drive in France----"

"I wish I had a _mille_ note for every time I've driven a four-in-hand
through this blessed town," said I. "I'm not afraid if you're not."

"Oh, my lord, I've been in so many accidents, one or two more can't
matter," he replied, as Hercules might have replied if asked whether
he were equal to a Thirteenth Labour in odd moments. "When I was
jockey in Count Tokai's racing stables, a horse went mad and kicked me
nearly to death. Then I was a racer in old bicycling days, and had
several bad spills. This scar on my face I got in a smash with one of
the first Benz cars made. My master thought it a fine thing at that
time to go ten miles an hour, and before he'd driven much, my lord,
he was determined to take the car through the stree