The roar of the motor roused her from her musings. There was a ripping, grinding noise and she could see the outline of the car move, sink back, and then lurch forward again. There was another whirring and grinding and then Claybrook's triumphant shout. She rose to her feet and walked over to him. They had succeeded. The car was standing, all four wheels on the hard, level surface, the engine racing like mad. "Hop in," Claybrook called to her a bit shortly. She complied and he reached forward to throw in the gear, when the man walked around in front of the car and held up a restraining hand. She saw then, for the first time, that he was a park policeman. "Let's have your name before you go, friend," he said. "But what for? There's no harm done. I thought I made it all right with you?" "You did--with me. But then you're pretty dangerous on these roads and I'll have to turn you in so that they can be looking out for you." Claybrook sullenly complied. And then, throwing the car into gear, they slipped quickly out of sight. After they had rounded the curve, he turned suddenly to Mary Louise. "That's a new one on me. I tipped him for helping me get the car out, and then he turns and takes my name. You can't count on anybody these days--ever since the war." "I think he has a sense of humour," she replied, laughing softly. As they passed the road-house he suggested once again that they stop for a bite to eat, but upon her refusal he made no comment. The night was no longer clear; gathering clouds on the western horizon were gradually spreading across the sky, and as they crossed the line on to the asphalt paving again, it began to rain, a few scattering drops. At which she teased him about his altered driving. He laughed but made no answer. But the shower did not come and directly they drew up at the curb outside her apartment. "Don't stop," she said. "Don't bother. You must get in before the rain." She felt singularly good humoured. "I'm sorry I made such a mess of things," he began clumsily, "and--and--you were pretty decent about it." It was a concession, but she could see he was rankled about something. "I hope they won't fine you too much," she called after him as he started off. And then she walked thoughtfully into the hallway and stepped into the elevator and was carried swiftly upward. "You've got to make allowances for them all," she decided mentally. "Yes," she added force to that decision, half aloud. "What d'you say, Miss Mac?" inquired the elevator boy. "I said, 'Seventh,'" she smiled at him. She was met at the door by Maida with her hair in curl papers and a most prodigious yawning and rubbing of eyes. The ideal night life for Maida was that spent comfortably in bed. "Thought you'd eloped," she ventured sleepily and then turned and shuffled off to the inner room. At the door she called over her shoulder, "There's a note someone left for you--about two hours ago."