"It was all right this morning," exclaimed Winthrop. 

 The car was pulled down to eight miles an hour, and, trembling and snorting at the indignity, nosed up to the red lanterns. 

 They showed in a ruddy glow the legs of two men. 

 "You gotta stop!" commanded a voice. 

 "Why?" asked Winthrop. 

 The voice became embodied in the person of a tall man, with a long overcoat and a drooping mustache. 

 "'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." 

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