hase, Dick took the right line of the fork,
which bent to hide him, if only for a moment, from the side-car.

"The station's down the other road," said Amaryllis.

"Yes," said Dick. "Don't want more than three minutes there before the
train pulls out."

He slowed suddenly, having seen his expected by-road a little way ahead.

"I'm turning back to the left here," he explained. "Look back as I
swing, and see if they're in sight."

"Not a sign," said Amaryllis.

But as she spoke they heard the detonations of a back-fire, and
pictured, though they could not see, Melchard's avengers plunging away
southward, past the end of the lane into which Dick had turned.

This lane between two rows of blunt cottage-fronts soon proved itself
not merely a refuge, but an avenue.

At eleven minutes past five Dick Bellamy stopped Melchard's car outside
the booking-office of somnolent Harthborough's dead-alive station--the
junction of the single-line track to Whitebay and its bathing machines
with the double-track branch of the G.N.R. from York to Caterscliff.

A hopeless porter languished against the hot bricks of the doorway. Dick
came round between him and Melchard, peering down upon that sordid wreck
of smartness. He turned to Amaryllis, who had followed him.

"Pore old guv'nor!" he said tenderly; and Amaryllis with difficulty
restrained her surprise at his change from the local dialect to that of
the London cab-rank. "They 'aven't arf filled 'im up proper this time."
Then, to the porter, despondently interested in this queer company, "Hi,
chum! Give us a 'and," he said, pulling from his pocket a confusion of
silver, and crumpled Treasury notes. "Is the London trine up yet?"

"Signalled, she be," said the porter, peering at Melchard.

"Keep yer eyes off wot's no blinkin' good to 'em" said Dick. Then,
lowering his voice to oily confidence, he went on: "It's young Lord
Labrador--Marquis of Toronto's 'opeful. Put 'im through the mill, they
'ave, at yer three-legged race meetin' at Timsdale-'Orton. Made me larf
shockin', it did. 'E's got to meet 'is lovin' pa, ten o'clock a.m.
ter-morrer mornin', an' I said as I'd see 'im through, and get 'm a wash
an' brush up. I train a bit for 'im--the young un, yer know."

"Well, 'tain't noah business o' mine," said the porter.

"'Ow much to make it yourn, sonny?"

"Ah doan't rightly knaw."

"Won't be less'n a dollar, mate--see?"

The porter saw.

Dick thrust notes into his hand.

"