Sixty miles still to go. She was driving slightly under ‘thirty,’ but the minutes were racing by. She didn’t go any slower. Fifty miles. The roadster kept its pace, the meter staying around twenty-eight or twenty-nine, always between twenty-five and thirty. Forty miles; then half way. She didn’t cheat.... Stars, sage, warm wind, early evening.... A thoroughbred, always different.... What could possibly be spoiled, if two kept on and on like this? But she knew something; and others, he knew, certainly had spoiled it.... Twenty-five miles. The night suddenly opened for him. He was nearer to her than ever before, though he had not changed position. He could not feel himself or her, but there was a white ball of light between his eyes--like all the stars of the gray haze fusing into one, like all the perfumes of the air fusing into one, all the stillnesses he had ever known fusing into one. ‘You--’ from her. ‘Yes, I’m here--’ ‘You know something--I must know!’ ‘_You are something--I must be_,’ he went on, as if finishing a magic formula which she had begun. ‘Oh, what has happened to us?’ she cried suddenly. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Do you suppose--the others--ever know anything like that--like this?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Elbert. ‘If they did--I don’t see how they could ever go apart.’ * * * * * Lights of Tucson, streets. The amazement that he knew now, was that she had kept on steadily driving.... ‘_You are something--I must be--_’ Had she said that, or had he? Had it really been spoken at all? And the car hadn’t halted a moment. ‘But we must never stop--no matter how wonderful it is--and say “This is it,”’ she repeated. ‘We must always keep on and on--’ ‘It’s so very much--right now--’ ‘I know--I know it is--but don’t ever let me stop and say: “We’ve found it.”’ The car drew up at the curb of the Santa Clara. ‘To-morrow. Luncheon. I’ll come at twelve--right here.’ Then he stood upon the pavement, differently alone. * * * * * It was after 11.30, next morning. Elbert had sent a telegram to his father that he was starting East to-night. Passing the desk he saw a paper in his box. ‘Friends of yours in Suite 14,’ it read. No signature. Writing he hadn’t seen before. He stood still for a moment. It wouldn’t be necessary to go up right now. She would be in front in fifteen or twenty minutes. He might let the message wait until afternoon. But after that, perhaps they would be going out somewhere. Better now, yet the hush he was in was hard to break. It was like a spell, yet the elevator door stood open. It wasn’t Bart who opened the door of the upper room but the old don of El Relicario, and graciously behind him, biding her time, the señora. Then from an inner room (was the crucifix there, too, and the white flower?) came the corn-dust maiden. ‘Ah, Señor, you were so brave--it was all because you were so brave!’ And behind her sounded the easy flowing laugh--words from Bart: