were reserve forces of cakes, preserves, and puddings, all of which coldly furnished forth the servants' meal when they had served our betters.
It was nearly three o'clock when we were ready to leave Alais, and the chauffeur had on his bronze-statue expression as he took his seat beside me after starting the car.
"What 's the matter?" I asked.
"Nothing," said he, "except that I don't know where we 're likely to lay our heads to-night."
"Where do you want to lay them?" I inquired flippantly. "Any gorge will do for mine."
"It won't for Lady Turnour's. But it may have to, and in that case she will probably snap yours off."
"Cousin Catherine has often told me it was of no use to me, except to show my hair. But are n't there hotels in the gorge of the Tarn?"
"There are in summer, but they 're not open yet, and the inns—well, if Fate casts us into one, Lady Turnour will have a fit. My idea was: a splendid run through some of the wildest and most wonderful scenery of France—little known to tourists, too—and then to get out of the Tarn region before dark. We may do it yet, but if we have any more trouble ⸺"
He did n't finish the sentence, because, as if he had been calling for it, the trouble came. I thought that an invisible enemy had fired a revolver at us from behind a tree, but it was only a second tyre, bursting out loud, instead of in a ladylike whisper, like the other.
Down got Mr. Dane, with the air of a condemned criminal who wants every one to believe that he is delighted
