He had only himself to blame if he should be stormbound. For no reason that he could have defined he had left a cheery crowd at the club, with never a word of farewell, urged by a sudden irrational impulse to reach home in time for supper. Such abrupt changes of plan were characteristic of Barry, annoying to his friends, but in no way destructive of his popularity. A young man endowed with good looks, charm of manner, and John Cumberland for a father is not dropped socially merely because nature has designed him for a poet in a material age. Through this ever-growing darkness he drove on; and although the route was one which normally carried little traffic, it seemed that this evening not a soul rode or walked upon the length of it. But loneliness dovetailed with his mood. He welcomed it. And so, when a sharp bend leading to a long descent set the storm behind him, he thought of it as a pursuer. He took the slope in breakneck fashion. It was a race against the pursuing darkness. Presently came a dangerous turning which he remembered. But he had possessed the Rolls--a birthday present from his father--long enough for it to have become a part of him, responsive almost to a thought, nearly to a mood. He checked where a ragged fence appeared suddenly ahead like a barrier and negotiated a tortured figure S which brought him out above a sheer drop. Beneath lay meadows where late corn showed speckled gold in the crawling shadows. Down, the road led, and still down. A gallant ray from the stifled sun alighted momentarily upon white walls of a building far ahead. He was aware of a flowered porch, a window, a low roof. Vaguely he recalled this little home. Something had drawn his attention to it upon the outward journey from New York. Then it was blotted out like a house of dreams; but he was losing nothing on the storm. The race grew more and more real. Some classic analogy cropped up in his mind; a fragment of half forgotten studies which he could not identify. He became a mortal defying the gods. But from this flight of imagination he came sharply back to earth. The house by the roadside passed--and even now he was bearing down upon it--what lay beyond? Jim Sakers, his pilot on the outward run, now was many miles behind, probably dancing; happily unconscious of the fact that his friend, bareheaded, in dinner kit, was racing for New York, a victim of moods, pursued by the storm. There was a bridge, Barry remembered. They had passed a Studebaker on it; very nice navigation, for the bridge was narrow. Yes! Here was the bridge. The Rolls went booming across it at fifty-five. And now Barry sighted his first pedestrian: an old man with a clean-shaven upper lip and a tufty white beard. He wore blue overalls, a huge plaid cap which would have suited Harry Lauder, and smoked a very short pipe. Pausing, he stepped hurriedly aside as the bareheaded madman swept by in a cloud of dust. His cap went up like a Scotch balloon.