Not a word had been spoken during the trip. The front windows were lowered. The driver,--an old, hatchet-faced man,--had uttered a single word just before throwing in the clutch at the cross-roads in response to the young woman's crisp command to drive to Hart's Tavern. That word was uttered under his breath and it is not necessary to repeat it here.
He lost no time in climbing out of the car. As he leaped to the ground and raised his green hat, he took a second look at the automobile,--a look of mingled wonder and respect. It was an old-fashioned, high- powered Panhard, capable, despite its antiquity, of astonishing speed in any sort of going.
"For heaven's sake," he began, shouting to her above the roar of the wind and rain, "don't let him drive like that over those--"
"You're getting wet," she cried out, a thrill in her voice. "Good night,--and thank you!"
"Look out!" rasped the unpleasant driver, and in went the clutch. The man in the road