you'll save about fifteen miles."

"How much pavement is there? Five or six miles?"

"Thirty about," said Piers.

"Thanks very much," said I. "We'll go by the forest."

I think I was right.

I knew the forest road and I knew its surface was superb. Thirty miles
of pavement, which I did not know, which was admittedly rough,
presented a ghastly prospect. The 'luxury' tax of fifteen precious
miles, tacked on to the way of the forest, was really frightening, but
since such a little matter as a broken lamp would kill our chances, I
dared not risk the rough and tumble of the pavement upon the Roquefort
road.

At last the cross-roads came, and we swung to the right. We had
covered a third of the ground.

I glanced at the gleaming clock sunk in the dash.

Twenty-five minutes past eight.

An hour and fifty minutes--and a hundred miles to go.

With a frightful shock I realised that, _even with the daylight to help
me, I had used a third of my time_.

I began to wish frantically that I had gone by Roquefort. I felt a
wild inclination to stop and retrace my steps. Pavement? Pavement be
burned. I must have been mad to throw away fifteen miles--fifteen
golden miles....

Adele's face, pale, frightened, accusing, stared at me through the
wind-screen. Over her shoulder, Jill, white and shrinking, pointed a
shaking finger.

With a groan, I jammed my foot on the accelerator....

With a roar, the car sprang forward like a spurred horse.

Heaven knows the speed at which St. Justin was passed. I was beyond
caring. We missed a figure by inches and a cart by a foot. Then the
cottages faded, and the long snarl of the engine sank to the stormy
mutter she kept for the open road.

We were in the forest now, and I let her go.

Out of the memories of that April evening our progress through the
forest stands like a chapter of a dream.

Below us, the tapering road, paler than ever--on either side an endless
army of fir trees, towering shoulder to shoulder, so dark, so vast, and
standing still as Death--above us, a lane of violet, all pricked with
burning stars, we supped the rare old ale brewed by Hans Andersen
himself.

Within this magic zone the throb of the engine, the hiss of the
carburettor, the swift brush of the tires upon the road--three rousing
tones, yielding a thunderous chord, were curiously staccato. The
velvet veil of silence we rent in twain; but as we tore it, the folds
fell back to hang like mig