njointly my
masters?

An uneventful though very cold run brought me to the quay at Newhaven,
where the car was shipped quite half an hour before the arrival of the
train from London. It proved a dark and dirty night in the Channel, and
the steamer tossed and rolled, much to the discomfort of the passengers
by "the cheapest route," which, by the way, is the quickest for
motorists. But the sea never troubling me, I took the opportunity of
having a good square meal in the saloon, got the steward to put a couple
of cold fowls and some ham and bread into a parcel, and within half an
hour of the steamer touching Dieppe quay I was heading out towards
Paris, with my new search-light shining far ahead, and giving such a
streak of brilliancy that a newspaper could be read by it half a mile
away.

Dark snow-clouds had gathered, and the icy wind cut my face like a
knife, causing me to assume my goggles as a slight protection. My feet
on the pedals were like ice, and my hands were soon cramped by the cold,
notwithstanding the fur gloves.

I took the road _via_ Rouen as the best, though there is a shorter cut,
and about two kilometres beyond the quaint old city, just as it was
getting light, I got a puncture on the off back tyre. A horse-nail it
proved, and in twenty minutes I was on the road again, running at the
highest speed I dared along the Seine valley towards Paris. The wind had
dropped with the dawn, and the snow-clouds had dispersed with the
daybreak. Though grey and very cheerless at first, the wintry sun at
last broke through, and it was already half-past seven when, avoiding
Paris, I had made a circuit and joined the Fontainebleau road at
Charenton, south of the capital.

I glanced at the clock. I had still half an hour to do nearly thirty
miles. So, anxious to meet the mysterious Pierrette, I let the car rip,
and ran through Melun and the town of Fontainebleau at a furious pace,
which would in England have certainly meant the endorsement of my
licence.

At the end of the town of Fontainebleau, a board pointed to
Marlotte--that tiny river-side village so beloved by Paris artists in
summer--and I swung into a great, broad, well-kept road, cut through the
bare Forest, with its thousands of straight lichen-covered tree trunks,
showing grey in the faint yellow sunlight.

Those long, broad roads through the Forest are, without exception,
excellently kept, and there being no traffic, I put on all the pace I
dared--a sp