“I’m afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, Sir Clifford,” he said calmly. “If she has enough petrol and oil⁠—”

“Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken,” snapped Clifford.

The man laid his gun against a tree, took off his coat and threw it beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and resenting the grease-marks on his clean Sunday shirt.

“Doesn’t seem anything broken,” he said. And he stood up, pushing back his hat from his forehead, rubbing his brow and apparently studying.

“Have you looked at the rods underneath?” asked Clifford. “See if they are all right!”