She was whirled back to the railway station and left there, on a hard,
blistered, wooden seat in the sun. She felt tired and dreadfully
ruffled and agitated and dusty. Dangle was, no doubt, most energetic
and devoted; but for a kindly, helpful manner commend her to Douglas
Widgery.

Meanwhile Dangle, his face golden in the evening sun, was driving (as
well as he could) a large, black horse harnessed into a thing called a
gig, northwestward towards Winchester. Dangle, barring his swollen eye,
was a refined-looking little man, and he wore a deerstalker cap and was
dressed in dark grey. His neck was long and slender. Perhaps you know
what gigs are,--huge, big, wooden things and very high and the horse,
too, was huge and big and high, with knobby legs, a long face, a hard
mouth, and a whacking trick of pacing. Smack, smack, smack, smack it
went along the road, and hard by the church it shied vigorously at a
hooded perambulator.

The history of the Rescue Expedition now becomes confused. It appears
that Widgery was extremely indignant to find Mrs. Milton left about upon
the Fareham platform. The day had irritated him somehow, though he
had started with the noblest intentions, and he seemed glad to find an
outlet for justifiable indignation. "He's such a spasmodic creature,"
said Widgery. "Rushing off! And I suppose we're to wait here until he
comes back! It's likely. He's so egotistical, is Dangle. Always wants to
mismanage everything himself."

"He means to help me," said Mrs. Milton, a little reproachfully,
touching his arm. Widgery was hardly in the mood to be mollified all
at once. "He need not prevent ME," he said, and stopped. "It's no good
talking, you know, and you are tired."

"I can go on," she said brightly, "if only we find her." "While I
was cooling my heels in Cosham I bought a county map." He produced and
opened it. "Here, you see, is the road out of Fareham." He proceeded
with the calm deliberation of a business man to develop a proposal
of taking train forthwith to Winchester. "They MUST be going to
Winchester," he explained. It was inevitable. To-morrow Sunday,
Winchester a cathedral town, road going nowhere else of the slightest
importance.

"But Mr. Dangle?"

"He will simply go on until he has to pass something, and then he will
break his neck. I have seen Dangle drive before. It's scarcely likely
a dog-cart, especially a hired dog-cart, will overtake bicycles in the
cool of the evening. Rely up