"By-by, don't break any records," Rupert called after the chauffeur. "Hold yourself in, do. If you shed any more tires, telegraph for me, and if I'm within a day's run I'll come put them on for you and save you time." Silence closed in again, as the red tail-light vanished around a bend. The gray car's driver nodded curtly to the stupefied youth in the middle of the road. "Unless you want to stay here all night, you'd better get in the machine," he suggested. "My name's Lestrange--I suppose yours is Ffrench?" "Dick Ffrench. But, see here, you mean well, but I'm going with my cousin. I'd like a drive with you, but I'm busy." "You're not fit to go with your cousin." "Not--" "Fit," completed Lestrange definitely. "Can you hang on somewhere, Rupert?" "I can," Rupert assured, with an inflection of his own. "Get your friend aboard." Lestrange was already in his seat, waiting. "What's that for?" asked the dazed guest, as, on taking his place, a strap was slipped around his waist, securing him to the seat. "So you won't fall out," soothed the grinning Rupert. "You ain't well, you know. Not that I'd care if you did, but somebody might blame Darling." The car leaped forward, gathering speed to an extent that was a revelation in motoring to Ffrench. The keen air, the giddy rush through the dark, were a sobering tonic. After a while he spoke to the man beside him, nervously embarrassed by a situation he was beginning to appreciate. "This is a racing car?" "It was." "Isn't it now?" "If I were going to race it day after to-morrow, I wouldn't be risking it over a country road to-night. A racing machine is petted like a race-horse until it is wanted." "And then?" "It takes its chances. If you are connected with the Ffrenches who manufacture the Mercury car, you should know something of automobile racing yourself. I noticed your limousine was of that make." "Yes, that is my uncle's company. I did see a race once at Coney Island. A car turned over and killed its driver and made a nasty muss. I--I didn't fancy it." A wheel slipped off a stone, giving the car a swerving lurch which was as instantly corrected--with a second lurch--by its pilot. The effect was not tranquilizing; the shock swept the last confusion from Ffrench's brain. "Where are you taking me?" he presently asked. "Where do you want to go? I will set you down at the next village we come to; you can stay there to-night or you can get a trolley to the city." The question remained unanswered. Several times Ffrench glanced, rather diffidently, at his companion's clear, firm profile, and looked away again without speaking. "I went out to get my cousin to-day, and my host gave me a couple of highballs," he volunteered, at last. "I don't know what you thought--" Lestrange twisted his car around a belated farm-wagon. "How old are you?" he inquired calmly. "Twenty-three." "I'm nearly twenty-seven. That's what I thought." The simpler mind considered this for a space.