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and bridges seen but for a flash, and whirling thoughts which were a never-ceasing agony.

Crushed! Buried! Burned!

He had sent his wife and child to a horrible death—sacrificed them upon the altar of a brief passion—upon the altar of a tinsel goddess, a creature without heart or sense of decency!

All through the night, overprinted upon every flitting scene, woven into the fabric of this appalling darkness, the terrible, accusing words sereamed into his brain———

Crushed! Buried! Burned!

****

“Hey!”

The first hail from a would-be passenger came before the car had left the suburbs of New Plymouth.

A tall man, in a weatherproof coat, leapt into the glare of the headlights and gesticulated furiously.

Roy swerved skilfully, missing the tall man by inches, and the vigorous hail was submerged in the shriek of skidding tyres.

“Nearly got that one,” he grinned.

Harley made no comment.

In the next ten miles as many people signalled the car hopefully, risking their lives on the chance of obtaining a passage to Hawke’s Bay. The avoiding of the curious, the anxious, the occasional Samaritan, who darted into the track of the racing car foolhardily and waved sticks, hats, or newspapers in the hope of a “lift,” became more of a strain than a sport.

Roy’s grin changed slowly to a frown.

“Get off the road!” he shouted angrily at a woman standing in the centre of the road outside Eltham, a woman who braved violent death and diverted the speeding traffic as effectively as a traffic-constable.

The woman screamed at him in return, but the epithet was lost in the roar of the engine.