ily paled, shrinking. She remembered the road under the maples and
Lestrange's laughing face as he leaned breathless across his useless
wheel. That was what it had meant, then, the lightly treated episode!

"You'd better fix it like he wants it," advised Dick's disturbed
tones. "Remember, he's got to drive the car Friday and Saturday,
Bailey, not us."

"It's not alone for my racer I'm speaking, but for every car that
leaves the shop," Lestrange caught him up. "I'm not flinching; I've
driven the car before and I will again. It may hold for ever, that
part, but I've tested it and it's a weak point--take the warning for
what it's worth."

There was a movement as if he rose with the last word. Emily laid her
hand on the arm of the chair, turning her excited dark eyes on her
uncle. Surely if ever Mr. Ffrench was to meet his manager, this was
the moment; when Lestrange's ringing argument was still in their ears,
his splendid force of earnestness still vibrant in the atmosphere. And
suddenly she wanted them to meet, passionately wanted Ethan Ffrench's
liking for this man.

"Uncle," she began. "Uncle--"

But it was not Lestrange's light step that halted on the threshold.

"Why, I didn't know--" exclaimed Bailey. "Excuse me, Mr. Ffrench, they
didn't tell me you were down."

He glanced over his shoulder; as he pulled shut the door Emily fancied
she heard an echo, as if the two young men left the next room.
Bitterly disappointed, she sank back.

"That was your manager with you?" Mr. Ffrench frigidly inquired.

"Yes; he went up-stairs to see how the new drill is acting." Bailey
pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his brow. "Excuse me, it's warm.
Yes, he wants me to strengthen a knuckle--he's spoken considerable
about it. I guess he's right; better too much than too little."

"I do not see that follows. I should imagine that you understood
building chassis better than this racing driver. You had best consult
outside experts in construction before making a change."

"Uncle!" Emily cried.

"There's a twenty-four hour race starts to-morrow night," Bailey
suggested uneasily. "It's easy fixed, and we might be wrong."

"We have always made them this way?"

"Yes, but--"

"Consult experts, then. I do not like your manager's tone; he is too
assuming. Now let me see those papers."

Emily's parasol slipped to the floor with a sharp crash as she stood
up, quite pale and shaken.

"Uncle, Mr. Lestrange knows," she appealed.