“Thaxter was telling me that you’d most likely be making him a business call this evening, and I thought I’d drive over and take you back in my car,” said the newly made motor enthusiast. “If I’m butting in, don’t scruple to chase me away.” Tregarvon was already taking his driving-coat from its closet in the fireplace corner. “You have come precisely in the nick of time,” he returned. “Carfax has taken my car to drive to Westwood House, and I must have a few minutes’ talk with him before I fight the final round with Thaxter. Will your car climb the big hill?” “If it won’t, I’ll scrap it and buy another,” laughed the Pittsburgher; and five minutes later the new, high-powered roadster was storming up the Pisgah grades. Eight minutes was the time to the Highmount gates, and Tregarvon called it a beat, though he had never timed his own car over the same distance. Eight other minutes covered the cross-mountain run to the western brow; and it was not until Wilmerding had tooled the roadster up the Westwood House driveway and was parking it beside the yellow touring-car that Tregarvon began to wonder if, with Elizabeth as her guest, Richardia would not be breaking her school routine by spending her evenings at home. In that case ... but it was now too late to retreat, and, with Wilmerding at his elbow, he ran up the steps to set the old-fashioned knocker of the great door clanging its drumbeat through the echoing interiors. When Aunt Phyllis, the solemn-faced old negress who was the sole survivor of the once numerous household retinue, opened the drawing-room doors for the two callers, the judge’s daughter was at the piano, the judge was listening luxuriously in a deep, calico-covered armchair, and Carfax was sitting with Miss Wardwell in a window-seat at the farther end of the room. Wilmerding made his own and Tregarvon’s apologies when the judge got upon his feet to welcome the newcomers. “We were taking a spin in my new car,” he explained, tactfully leaving Tregarvon’s errand unmentioned. “Of course, we couldn’t pass your hospitable door, Judge Birrell.” “No, suh; most suttainly you couldn’t,” was the ready response. “The do-ahs of old Westwood House may creak a little on thei-uh hinges, suh, but they still swing wide enough to let the guest enter at his pleas-yuh. Find yo-uh places, gentlemen, if you please; my daughtuh is giving us a little music.”