“It's very late,” he complained. “Surely you are not going to be back at ten.” “I have special permission to be out late.” “Good!” And then, recollecting their new situation: “We have a lot to talk over. It will take time.” At the White Springs Hotel they stopped to fill the gasolene tank of the car. Joe Drummond saw Wilson there, in the sheet-iron garage alongside of the road. The Wilson car was in the shadow. It did not occur to Joe that the white figure in the car was not Sidney. He went rather white, and stepped out of the zone of light. The influence of Le Moyne was still on him, however, and he went on quietly with what he was doing. But his hands shook as he filled the radiator. When Wilson's car had gone on, he went automatically about his preparations for the return trip--lifted a seat cushion to investigate his own store of gasolene, replacing carefully the revolver he always carried under the seat and packed in waste to prevent its accidental discharge, lighted his lamps, examined a loose brake-band. His coolness gratified him. He had been an ass: Le Moyne was right. He'd get away--to Cuba if he could--and start over again. He would forget the Street and let it forget him. The men in the garage were talking. “To Schwitter's, of course,” one of them grumbled. “We might as well go out of business.” “There's no money in running a straight place. Schwitter and half a dozen others are getting rich.” “That was Wilson, the surgeon in town. He cut off my brother-in-law's leg--charged him as much as if he had grown a new one for him. He used to come here. Now he goes to Schwitter's, like the rest. Pretty girl he had with him. You can bet on Wilson.” So Max Wilson was taking Sidney to Schwitter's, making her the butt of garage talk! The smiles of the men were evil. Joe's hands grew cold, his head hot. A red mist spread between him and the line of electric lights. He knew Schwitter's, and he knew Wilson. He flung himself into his car and threw the throttle open. The car jerked, stalled. “You can't start like that, son,” one of the men remonstrated. “You let 'er in too fast.” “You go to hell!” Joe snarled, and made a second ineffectual effort. Thus adjured, the men offered neither further advice nor assistance. The minutes went by in useless cranking--fifteen. The red mist grew heavier. Every lamp was a danger signal. But when K., growing uneasy, came out into the yard, the engine had started at last. He was in time to see Joe run his car into the road and turn it viciously toward Schwitter's. Carlotta's nearness was having its calculated effect on Max Wilson. His spirits rose as the engine, marking perfect time, carried them along the quiet roads.