ill
hear of me; if anything happens, I've told you the truth. I'm old
enough to see it now. And I tried to square things."
IX
In the delicate, fresh June dawn, the Ffrench limousine crept into the
Beach inclosure.
"We're here," said Bailey, to his traveling companions. "You can't
park the car front by the fence; Mr. David might see you and kill
himself by a misturn. Come up to the grand-stand seats."
Mr. Ffrench got out in silence and assisted Emily to descend; a pale
and wide-eyed Emily behind her veil.
"The boys were calling extras," she suggested faintly. "They said
three accidents on the track."
Bailey turned to a blue and gold official passing.
"Number seven all right?" he asked.
"On the track, Lestrange driving," was the prompt response. "Leading
by thirty-two miles."
A little of Emily's color rushed back. Satisfied, Bailey led the way
to the tiers of seats, almost empty at this hour. Pearly,
unsubstantial in the young light, lay the huge oval meadow and the
track edging it. Of the fourteen cars starting, nine were still
circling their course, one temporarily in its camp for supplies.
"I've sent over for Mr. Dick," Bailey informed the other two. "He's
been here, and he can tell what's doing. Four cars are out of the
race. There's Mr. David, coming!"
A gray machine shot around the west curve, hurtled roaring down the
straight stretch past the stand and crossed before them, the
mechanician rising in his seat to catch the pendant linen streamers
and wipe the dust from the driver's goggles in preparation for the
"death turn" ahead. There was a series of rapid explosions as the
driver shut off his motor, the machine swerved almost facing the
infield fence and slid around the bend with a skidding lurch that
threw a cloud of soil high in the air. Emily cried out, Mr. Ffrench
half rose in his place.
"What's the matter?" dryly queried Bailey. "He's been doing that all
night; and a mighty pretty turn he makes, too. He's been doing it for
about five years, in fact, to earn his living, only we didn't see him.
Here goes another."
Mr. Ffrench put on his pince-nez, preserving the dignity of outward
composure. Emily saw and heard nothing; she was following Lestrange
around the far sides of the course, around until again he flashed
past her, repeating his former feat with appalling exactitude.
It was hardly more than five minutes before Dick came hurrying toward
them; cross, tired, dust-st
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