of a blow-out it is, do you?"
grinned the operator, glancing out of the window at the spic and span
machine.

"If you don't see everything you look at, you'll save your eyesight,"
replied Farrell cheerfully.

At the next town he telephoned to the Marvin office in New York. He
came out of the booth with a worried look.

"The boss has left in a taxi for home," he said. "Wonder what that
means. Guess we better sort of travel along towards Westbury. He
might need me."

They changed their course and had driven for some time at an easy rate
through the smiling country when the sound of a machine coming up
speedily behind caused Farrell to look around. The passenger in the
open cab waved his hand and Farrell, saluting, slowed down. The cars
stopped, side by side. Harry raised his hat to the young woman.

"You're not going home, are you, Farrell?" he said.

"I heard you'd left the office and I thought something might have
happened, and I'd be near enough so you could get me quick."

"Nothing has happened. I'll get along nicely with this cab. You'd
better keep a good distance and not come home until tomorrow morning."

"Very well, sir. That suits us fine." Farrell grinned.

The taxi started on and Farrell turned off at the next crossroad.

"He's a great boss, but a queer one," he said to his wife. "It's a
queer family all around. I wonder what's being cooked up now."

As the time of Farrell's expected return drew near Pauline's despair
and anger increased with every moment. When four o'clock struck she
arose and walked nervously out to the garage to ask if any word had
been received from Farrell. She found Owen there.

As she turned toward him, after her futile questioning, Pauline's grief
suddenly mounted to anger.

"It is after four, and Farrell has not returned," she exclaimed.

She had come out to the yard in the exquisite white gown that she was
to wear to the wedding, a flashing jewel at her white throat, her hair
done regally high. Now, in her anger, she was a picture of fury made
beautiful.

Her outburst was interrupted by a messenger boy with a telegram. She
opened the message with nervous fingers.

"Blow out. Can't get back this evening," she read.

She tore the message into pieces, dropped them and, stamped upon them
with her white slippers.

"It's true, it's true!" she cried, turning desperately to Owen.

"I am terribly, hopelessly sorry--but I knew that it was true," he
said