Hastings opened the door and sprang on to the hub of the wheel, expostulating angrily. He returned in a moment to his companion. "Here's the devil to pay," he cried. "Tim's down against the dashboard as drunk as a lord. There's nothing to do but put him inside and drive, myself. I'd chuck him into a drift if I were not under certain obligations of a similar sort. Will you come outside with me, or stay in with him?" "Why not go back to the Presidio?" "We are about half-way between, and may as well go on." "I'll go outside, by all means." He stepped out. The two men dragged the coachman off the box and huddled him inside. "We're off the road," said Hastings, "but I think I can find my way. I'll cut across to the Mission road, and then we'll be on level ground, at least." They mounted the box. Hastings gathered the reins and Thorpe lit a cigar. The horses, well ordered brutes of the livery stable, did their weary best to respond to the peremptory order to speed. "We'll be two hours late," the young officer grumbled, as they floundered out of the sandhills and entered the Mission Valley. "Damn the idiot. Why couldn't he have waited till we got there?" They were now somewhat sheltered from the wind, and as the road was level, although rutty, made fair progress. "I didn't mean to treat you to a nasty adventure the very night of your arrival," continued Hastings apologetically. "Oh, one rather looks for adventures in California. If I hadn't so much sand in my eyes I'd be rather entertained than otherwise. I only hope our faces are not dirty." "They probably are. Still, if we are not held up, I suppose we can afford to overlook the minor ills." "Held up?" "Stopped by road-agents, garroters, highway robbers--whatever you like to call 'em. I've never been held up myself; as a rule I go in the ambulance at night, but it's no uncommon experience. I've got a revolver in my overcoat pocket--on this side. Reach over and get it, and keep it cocked. I _couldn't_ throw up my hands. I'd feel as if the whole United States army were disgraced." Thorpe abstracted the pistol, but although the long lonely road was favourable to crime, no road-agents appeared, and Hastings drove into the outskirts of the town with audibly expressed relief. "We're not far now," he added. "South Park is the place we're bound for; and, by the way, Mr. Randolph projected and owns most of it." A quarter of an hour later he drove into an oval enclosure trimmed with tall dark houses, so sombre in appearance that to the old Californian they must now, in their desertion and decay, seem to have been grimly prescient of their destiny. As the carriage drew up before a brilliantly lighted house the door opened, and a man-servant ran down the steps. "Keep quiet," whispered Hastings. The man opened the door of the carriage, waited a moment, then put his head inside. He drew it back with a violent oath. "It's a damned insult!" he cried furiously.