flask, was slung just opposite
her, withdrew from within it a silver sandwich-box. She snapped open the
lid and proffered the box to Garth.

"Help yourself. And--do you mind"--he spoke a little uncertainly and
the darkness hid the expression of his face from her--"handing me my
share--in pieces suitable for human consumption? This is a bad bit of
road, and I want both hands for driving the car."

In silence Sara broke the sandwiches and fed him, piece by piece, while
he bent over the wheel, driving steadily onward.

The little, intimate action sent a curious thrill through her. It seemed
in some way to draw them together, effacing the memory of those weeks of
bitter indifference which lay behind them. Such a thing would have
been grotesquely impossible of performance in the atmosphere of studied
formality supplied by their estrangement, and Sara smiled a little to
herself under cover of the darkness.

"One more mouthful!" she announced as she halved the last sandwich.

An instant later she felt his lips brush her fingers in a sudden,
burning kiss, and she withdrew her hand as though stung.

She was tingling from head to foot, every nerve of her a-thrill, and
for a moment she felt as though she hated him. He had been so kind, so
friendly, so essentially the good comrade in this crisis occasioned by
Molly's flight, and now he had spoilt it all--playing the lover once
more when he had shown her clearly that he meant nothing by it.

Apparently he sensed her attitude--the quick withdrawal of spirit which
had accompanied the more physical retreat.

"Forgive me!" he said, rather low. "I won't offend again."

She made no answer, and presently she felt the car sliding slowly to a
standstill. A sudden panic assailed her.

"What is it? What are you doing?" she asked, quick fear in her sharply
spoken question.

He laughed shortly.

"You needn't be afraid--" he began.

"I'm not!" she interpolated hastily.

"Excuse me," he said drily, "but you are. You don't trust me in the
slightest degree. Well"--she could guess, rather than see, the shrug
which accompanied the words--"I can't blame you. It's my own fault, I
suppose."

He braked the car, and she quivered to a dead stop, throbbing like a
live thing in the darkness.

"You must forgive me for being so material," he went on composedly, "but
I want a drink, and I'm not acrobat enough to manage that, even with
your help, while we're doing thirty miles an hour."

He