THE FOUR STRAGGLERS. Frank L. Packard

the other. "But not near enough to the house to be heard. Did any one hear a motor after that shot was fired? Of course, not! We may get them before they get their motor. Also, we'll use a motor too! Any one of the chauffeurs here?"

      "Yes, sir," answered a man.

      "Good! Any one armed?"

      "I've got the Earl's revolver," said Captain Francis Newcombe.

      "Well, there's the gun room," said the man who had assumed command. "And you servants get lanterns and things. Look lively, now! Sharp's the word!"

      And for some reason Captain Francis Newcombe smiled grimly to himself, as he attached his person to the chauffeur, and, accompanied by three other pajama-clad guests, raced from the house.

      At the garage Captain Francis Newcombe appropriated the front seat beside the chauffeur, his fellow guests scrambled into the tonneau, and a moment later the big car shot around the end of the house and began to sweep down the driveway. The ex-captain of territorials screwed around in his seat for a backward glance as they tore along. Every window in the great, rambling, castle-like edifice appeared to be alight; this caused a filmy, lighted zone without, and through this raced ghostly figures in bathrobes and dressing gowns that were almost instantly swallowed up in the shadows of the trees; and from amongst the trees, dancing in and out, like huge fireflies in their effect, there showed in constantly increasing numbers the glint of lanterns.

      But now the motor was at the lodge gates, nosing the main road, and the chauffeur pulled up.

      "Which way would you say, sir?" he asked anxiously.

      "I'd vote for whichever is the shortest way to London—that's to the left, isn't it?" Captain Francis Newcombe responded promptly. He turned to his fellow guests. "I don't know what you think about it?"

      "Yes," one of the others answered, "I'd say that's the way they'd most likely take."

      "Very good, sir!" said the chauffeur. "Left, it is, and—" He broke short off. "There they are!" he cried excitedly. "Listen! They're coming out of that lane there, over to the right!" He swung the motor sharply into the straight of the main road. "There they are! See 'em!" he cried again, as the headlights brought the rear of a speeding motor into view. "The old general back there in the house was right. They didn't bring their motor any nearer for fear it would be heard. That's where it has been—up the lane there. But we've got 'em now! This old girl'll touch seventy and never turn a hair."

      "Corking!" contributed Captain Francis Newcombe enthusiastically. "You're sure of the seventy, are you?"

      "Rather!" exclaimed the chauffeur. "Look for yourself, sir. We're overhauling them now like one o'clock."

      The ex-captain of territorials for a moment stared intently along the headlights' rays to where, gradually, the other motor was coming more and more into focus.

      "By Jove, I believe you're right!" he agreed heartily—and from the pocket of his dressing gown produced the Earl's revolver.

      The motor was lurching now with the speed. A hundred yards intervening between the flying cars diminished to seventy-five—to fifty. Still closer! The men in the tonneau clung to their seats. Twenty-five yards!

      Captain Francis Newcombe shouted to his companions over the roar and sweep of the wind.

      "I'll take a pot at the beggars, and see if that'll stop 'em!" he yelled. "Better chance over the top of the windshield, what?"

      Captain Francis Newcombe stood up, swayed with the car, fired twice in quick succession and once after a short pause over the top of the windshield—but the ex-captain of territorials' mark seemed curiously comprehensive in expanse, for his eyes were at the same time searching the side of the road ahead. And now there showed at the end of the headlight's path a hedgerow bordering close against the side of the road. Captain Francis Newcombe fired again, but as the car lurched now the ex-captain of territorials seemed momentarily to lose his balance, and with the lurch swayed heavily against the chauffeur's arm.

      There was a startled yell from the chauffeur; a vicious swerve—and the big motor leaped at the hedge. Came a crash of splintering glass as Captain Francis Newcombe was pitched head first against the windshield; a rip and rend and tear as the motor bucked and plunged and twisted in its conflict with the thick, heavy hedge; and then a terrific jolt that in its train brought a full stop.

      And Captain Francis Newcombe, flung back and half out of the car, put his hands to his eyes and brought them away wet from a great gush of blood.

      "Carry on! Carry on!" he cried weakly. "You'll never have a better chance to get them."

      "My God!" screamed the chauffeur. "Carry on? We're a bally wreck!"

      "What beastly luck!" murmured Captain Francis Newcombe—and lost consciousness.