He tinkered with the engine ineffectively for some time, then came round to the side again, unlocking the door and motioning her to get out and join him.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” she asked.

“Never you mind,” he grunted, and grasped her wrist tightly, dragging her out of the car by main force and landing her, breathless, in the road.

“Look here,” she protested. “What on earth does all this mean, sir? You drag me all over the country, and then you land me on a God-forsaken moor in the middle of Yorkshire—if what you tell me is true—and now apparently you expect me to tramp all over the north of England with you. I tell you, whatever power you have, this is just not good enough.”

“Don’t be a fool, my dear,” he said—a little more pleasantly, it is true. “We’re only walking as far as the nearest garage.”

“How far is that?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Well, I’m not going to walk ten miles with you.”

“You’re going to walk a hundred miles if I tell you to,” he answered roughly. “That car won’t run without petrol, and to get some petrol we must get to a garage.”

Violet laughed. “So the all-efficient kidnapper forgot to fill up his petrol-tank!” she chaffed him, almost forgetting, in her amusement at this puerile slip, the peril in which she stood at that moment.

“Yes,” he said. “And, since I can’t leave you in the car until I come back, I have to take you to the nearest garage with me. And if you don’t do as I tell you—well, I warn you that I have other methods. I can force you to do exactly what I wish. So don’t try to disobey me, or it will be the worse for you. Understand?” He pulled his hand out of his overcoat pocket, to reveal the fact that it held an enormous, villainous-looking revolver, and Violet, this time, had no difficulty in reminding herself that this man was probably a murderer.

They tramped along the road, the man’s hand tightly gripped on her arm, and Violet looked at the cruel hill above her, and the dangerous precipice below, wondering if an attempt to escape would be possible. Then she decided that it would not. This man, who was no doubt an excellent shot with a revolver, would be able to pick her off without difficulty long before she got out of revolver-shot. So the only thing to do was to carry on, and hope that some opportunity to escape might offer itself later. So she obediently altered her pace to fit her captor’s pace as he strode hurriedly along the road.

As the car sped out of Penistone Shelley kept his eyes anxiously bent on the road ahead.

“How far did you say?” he asked.

“Two or three miles,” answered Cartwright.