under his breath when he
saw my face by the light of a street lamp.

It was the look on his which made me realize, as Dick's persuasions had
not, that I must delay long enough to be made again into some semblance of
a sane man. An hour more before getting on the road would not endanger
success, though it would try my patience. A quarter of a mile's walk to
the garage was a sharper test of my strength than I would confess; but
when Ropes had roused the watchman, filled the good old Gloria with
petrol, and started her up the hill, the rush of pure night air gave me
life.

At the hotel, we walked in without waking the dozing _concierge_. Dick
made me free of his things; and when, between us, we had finished my
toilet, he admitted that I was not as appalling an object as he had
thought. He changed his wet clothes, left a note for the landlord, and it
was not yet two o'clock when we started, Ropes driving, Dick with me in
the tonneau.

"To Madrid, top speed, quickest way," was the word; and I hoped for a
non-stop run, or as near it as possible.

The quickest way was by Jaen, a road which none of us knew, and the
starlit sky was obscured by dark clouds which heralded a summer
thunder-storm. As Ropes steered across the Vega towards that gap in the
mountains which is the door of the north, there came a waterspout of rain
on the roof. Thunder drowned the purr of the motor, and a flash of
lightning every other moment dimmed the flying circle of our acetylenes.
There had been rain more than once of late, and this deluge made the road,
already bad, soft and greasy as an outworn sponge. The Gloria waltzed and
slipped in a mass of brown porridge, but Ropes knew that we were to drive
against time, and, throwing caution to the wind, tore through the
treacherous mud as if to win the cup in a great race.

We flung Granada behind us, dashing in among the foothills of the
mountains, mounting a slippery defile, with the rain like whips lashing
our faces. Orchards flashed by; there was a rock tunnel, where the lights
shone fiercely on rough-hewn stone, and the thrum of the motor became a
roar.

Out again, and still up, the beams from our lamps shooting across
vineyards, plantations of figs and pomegranates, and striking silver from
the curves of the Guadalbullon River. A glimpse of an old castle
commanding a dark gorge, and we were at Jaen; then, presently, the road
became familiar, for we had travelled it before. At this very corner