"Please take my prayer-book indoors." The babe went obediently.
The miles ran past.

Helena, on her mettle, was driving her best, and Buntingford had already paid her one or two brief compliments, which she had taken in silence.

Presently they topped a ridge, and there lay Dansworth in a hollow, a column of smoke gashed with occasional flame rising above the town.
"A big blaze," said Buntingford, examining it through a field-glass.
"It's the large brewery in the market-place.

Hullo, you there!" He hailed a country cart, full of excited occupants, which was being driven rapidly towards them.

The driver pulled up with difficulty.
Buntingford jumped out and went to make enquiries.
"It's a bad business, Sir," said the man in charge of the cart, a small farmer whom Buntingford recognized.