red, with an inflection of his own. "Get your
friend aboard."

Lestrange was already in his seat, waiting.

"What's that for?" asked the dazed guest, as, on taking his place, a
strap was slipped around his waist, securing him to the seat.

"So you won't fall out," soothed the grinning Rupert. "You ain't well,
you know. Not that I'd care if you did, but somebody might blame
Darling."

The car leaped forward, gathering speed to an extent that was a
revelation in motoring to Ffrench. The keen air, the giddy rush
through the dark, were a sobering tonic. After a while he spoke to the
man beside him, nervously embarrassed by a situation he was beginning
to appreciate.

"This is a racing car?"

"It was."

"Isn't it now?"

"If I were going to race it day after to-morrow, I wouldn't be risking
it over a country road to-night. A racing machine is petted like a
race-horse until it is wanted."

"And then?"

"It takes its chances. If you are connected with the Ffrenches who
manufacture the Mercury car, you should know something of automobile
racing yourself. I noticed your limousine was of that make."

"Yes, that is my uncle's company. I did see a race once at Coney
Island. A car turned over and killed its driver and made a nasty muss.
I--I didn't fancy it."

A wheel slipped off a stone, giving the car a swerving lurch which was
as instantly corrected--with a second lurch--by its pilot. The effect
was not tranquilizing; the shock swept the last confusion from
Ffrench's brain.

"Where are you taking me?" he presently asked.

"Where do you want to go? I will set you down at the next village we
come to; you can stay there to-night or you can get a trolley to the
city."

The question remained unanswered. Several times Ffrench glanced,
rather diffidently, at his companion's clear, firm profile, and looked
away again without speaking.

"I went out to get my cousin to-day, and my host gave me a couple of
highballs," he volunteered, at last. "I don't know what you thought--"

Lestrange twisted his car around a belated farm-wagon.

"How old are you?" he inquired calmly.

"Twenty-three."

"I'm nearly twenty-seven. That's what I thought."

The simpler mind considered this for a space.

"Some men are born awake, some awake themselves, and some are shaken
into awakening," paraphrased Lestrange, in addition. "If I were you,
I'd wake up; it comes easier and it's sure to arrive anyhow. There is
the village ahead--sha