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“‘Cause I tell you to!” snapped the tall man.

Winthrop threw a quick glance to the rear. In that direction for a mile the road lay straight away. He could see its entire length, and it was empty. In thinking of nothing but Miss Forbes, he had forgotten the chaperon. He was impressed with the fact that the immediate presence of a chaperon was desirable. Directly in front of the car, blocking its advance, were two barrels, with a two-inch plank sagging heavily between them. Beyond that the main street of Fairport lay steeped in slumber and moonlight.

“I am a selectman,” said the one with the lantern. “You been exceedin’ our speed limit.”

The chauffeur gave a gasp that might have been construed to mean that the charge amazed and shocked him.

“That is not possible,” Winthrop answered. “I have been going very slow–on purpose–to allow a disabled car to keep up with me.”

The selectman looked down the road.

“It ain’t kep’ up with you,” he said pointedly.

“It has until the last few minutes.”

“It’s the last few minutes we’re talking about,” returned the man who had not spoken. He put his foot on the step of the car.

“What are you doing?” asked Winthrop.

“I am going to take you to Judge Allen’s. I am chief of police. You are under arrest.”

Before Winthrop rose moving pictures of Miss Forbes appearing in a dirty police station before an officious Dogberry, and, as he and his car were well known along the Post road, appearing the next morning in the New York papers. “William Winthrop,” he saw the printed words, “son of Endicott Winthrop, was arrested here this evening, with a young woman who refused to give her name, but who was recognized as Miss Beatrice Forbes, whose engagement to Ernest Peabody, the Reform candidate on the Independent ticket—-“

And, of course, Peabody would blame her.

“If I have exceeded your speed limit,” he said politely, “I shall be delighted to pay the fine. How much is it?”

“Judge Allen’ll tell you what the fine is,” said the selectman gruffly. “And he may want bail.”

“Bail?” demanded Winthrop. “Do you mean to tell me he will detain us here?”

“He will, if he wants to,” answered the chief of police combatively.

For an instant Winthrop sat gazing gloomily ahead, overcome apparently by the enormity of his offence. He was calculating whether, if he rammed the two-inch plank, it would hit the car or Miss Forbes. He decided swiftly it would hit his new two-hundred-dollar lamps. As swiftly he decided the new lamps must go. But he had read of guardians of the public safety so regardless of private safety as to try to puncture runaway tires with pistol bullets. He had no intention of subjecting Miss Forbes to a fusillade.

So he whirled upon the chief of police:

“Take your hand off that gun!” he growled. “How dare you threaten me?”

Amazed, the chief of police dropped from the step and advanced indignantly.

“Me?” he demanded. “I ain’t got a gun. What you mean by—-“

With sudden intelligence, the chauffeur precipitated himself upon the scene.

“It’s the other one,” he shouted. He shook an accusing finger at the selectman. “He pointed it at the lady.”

To Miss Forbes the realism of Fred’s acting was too convincing. To learn that one is covered with a loaded revolver is disconcerting. Miss Forbes gave a startled squeak, and ducked her head.

Winthrop roared aloud at the selectman.

“How dare you frighten the lady!” he cried. “Take your hand off that gun.”

“What you talkin’ about?” shouted the selectman. “The idea of my havin’ a gun! I haven’t got a—-“

“All right, Fred!” cried Winthrop. “Low bridge.”

There was a crash of shattered glass and brass, of scattered barrel staves, the smell of escaping gas, and the Scarlet Car was flying drunkenly down the main street.