miles around.

They appeared in a procession, according to their kind, when necessary
disguised in rich and succulent sauces which did credit to the creator's
imagination; and there 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 aren'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 didn'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 to be hanged. Down got I also, to
relieve the car of my weight during the weird process of "jacking up,"
though the chauffeur assured me that I didn't matter any more than a fly
on the wheel. Our birds of paradise remained in their cage, however,
Lady Turnour glaring whenever she caught a glimpse of the chauffeur's
head, as if he had bitten that hole in the tyre. But before us loomed
mountains--disagreeable-looking mountains--more like _embonpoints_
growing out of the earth's surface than ornamental elevations. On the
tops there was something white, and I preferred having Lady Turnour
glare at the chauffeur, no matter how unjustly, than that her attention
should be caught by that far, silver glitter.

Suddenly my brother paused in his work, unbent his