hem close on hers for all
time.

"Rupert knew," Corrie presently divined, as the unsurprised mechanician
lounged toward them.

"Yes, Rupert knew," Gerard confirmed. "He helped me go through the
treatment each day. One reason I did not tell you what we were doing,
was that the process was not very pleasant, and it used to leave me
rather upset and sick for a while--you caught me too soon after it that
morning you signed the contracts. Don't wince; _you_ had nothing to do
with my smash."

"But I blamed myself, always!" Corrie stood up, thrusting his hands into
his pockets and squaring his shoulders with the sturdy responsibility so
easily read now. "I had no business to take Isabel there, and I put the
mischief into her head by pitching bolts at you. She couldn't tell it
was in fun. I--I would rather have known you'd get well, Gerard, than
have known I was cleared."

"Didn't it ever occur to you, Corrie, to blame _us_, when we were so
ready to convict you and pass judgment?" countered Gerard.

Checked, Corrie surveyed the three with the ingenuous astonishment of a
new point of view.

"Blame you people?" he marvelled. "Why, when I thought what a low brute
you had every right to believe I was, I used to feel like thanking you
for staying in the same room with me. I--Well, I guess it's time to go
home, isn't it? I'll leave you to start."

"Leave us?" exclaimed Flavia.

"You'll make a line for that limousine right now, Corwin B.," pronounced
Mr. Rose, with the familiar easy mastery that was a caress.

His son laughingly shook his fair head.

"No, thanks, sir. I'm going to drive the Mercury Titan home and put it
in the garage. Unless," he looked over his shoulder, "unless Rupert is
afraid to trust himself to ride with a punk chauffeuse and a no-class
fake?"

"I ain't real nervous to-day," drawled the mechanician graciously. "Nor
I ain't supposing but what you're entitled to a chauffeur's license,
Rose."

XVII

THE END OF THE ROAD

In the golden afternoon sunlight, when tree-shadows stretched long and
velvet-soft across the lawns and terraces of Mr. Rose's park, amid all
October's blending fragrances and mellow tints, Corrie Rose came home.
After all, it was Jack Rupert who put the Mercury Titan in the garage,
opposite the house; Corrie yielding his seat to his mechanician.

"I believe I'll let you take her around; I want to go in with my
people," the driver explained. "You might as well get establi