The Wings of Victory by Fred M. White

The little car scouted round the edge of the park and from thence by the winding road on to the moor. This was a matter of a mile or two, and the road finally turned almost to the edge of the park again, so that anyone crossing it could have been in a position to cut the car off before it left the precincts of the house. But once this was done the long wide thoroughfare stretched away in the moonlight for miles and miles towards the south-west. It was a somewhat narrow track, by no means good for motor traffic, but then, on the other hand, it was a lonely road with no hedge on either side, and little chance of encountering traffic. Then the road wound again in serpentine fashion, so that the best part of an hour elapsed with Dorn and de Barsac barely ten miles on their way.

For a long time they hardly spoke to one another, each apparently wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts. They were close together, and yet entirely far apart, each wondering what the other was thinking, and each full of suspicion and mistrust. It was de Barsac who spoke at length. He had the wheel in his hand, and Dorn was huddled down by his side.