"You'd better fix it like he wants it," advised Dick's disturbed tones. "Remember, he's got to drive the car Friday and Saturday, Bailey, not us." "It's not alone for my racer I'm speaking, but for every car that leaves the shop," Lestrange caught him up. "I'm not flinching; I've driven the car before and I will again. It may hold for ever, that part, but I've tested it and it's a weak point--take the warning for what it's worth." There was a movement as if he rose with the last word. Emily laid her hand on the arm of the chair, turning her excited dark eyes on her uncle. Surely if ever Mr. Ffrench was to meet his manager, this was the moment; when Lestrange's ringing argument was still in their ears, his splendid force of earnestness still vibrant in the atmosphere. And suddenly she wanted them to meet, passionately wanted Ethan Ffrench's liking for this man. "Uncle," she began. "Uncle--" But it was not Lestrange's light step that halted on the threshold. "Why, I didn't know--" exclaimed Bailey. "Excuse me, Mr. Ffrench, they didn't tell me you were down." He glanced over his shoulder; as he pulled shut the door Emily fancied she heard an echo, as if the two young men left the next room. Bitterly disappointed, she sank back. "That was your manager with you?" Mr. Ffrench frigidly inquired. "Yes; he went up-stairs to see how the new drill is acting." Bailey pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his brow. "Excuse me, it's warm. Yes, he wants me to strengthen a knuckle--he's spoken considerable about it. I guess he's right; better too much than too little." "I do not see that follows. I should imagine that you understood building chassis better than this racing driver. You had best consult outside experts in construction before making a change." "Uncle!" Emily cried. "There's a twenty-four hour race starts to-morrow night," Bailey suggested uneasily. "It's easy fixed, and we might be wrong." "We have always made them this way?" "Yes, but--" "Consult experts, then. I do not like your manager's tone; he is too assuming. Now let me see those papers." Emily's parasol slipped to the floor with a sharp crash as she stood up, quite pale and shaken. "Uncle, Mr. Lestrange knows," she appealed. "You heard him say what would happen--please, please let it be fixed." Amazed, Mr. Ffrench looked at her, his face setting. "You forget your dignity," he retorted in displeasure. "This is mere childishness, Emily. Men will be consulted more competent to decide than this Lestrange. That will do." From one to the other she gazed, then turned away. "I will wait out in the cart," she said. "I--I would rather be outdoors." Dick Ffrench was up-stairs, standing with Lestrange in one of the narrow aisles between lines of grimly efficient machines that bit or cut their way through the steel and aluminum fed to them, when Rupert came to him with a folded visiting card.