He wondered vaguely what Barto could be doing at the turn in the obstructed side-canyon road, and the wonder went with him while the little car was covering the remaining distance and flying up the cottonwood-shaded avenue at Wartrace Hall. But a glance at his watch made him forget the Barto incident in a heart-warming thrill of admiration--the joy of a skilled motorist recognizing kindred skill in another. The thirty miles from the city had been made in something under fifty minutes. When she brought the roadster to a stand at the carriage entrance, Patricia spoke for the first time since she had taken the wheel for the record-breaking drive. "Find your father quickly and say to him what you have come to say. When you are ready to go back, I'll keep my promise and drive you." "That won't be at all necessary," he protested, getting out to stand with his hand on the dash. "I am perfectly well able to drive myself; and, besides, it would leave you at the wrong end of the road, and alone." "Don't stand there talking about it," she commanded. "Go and do what you have to do. I'll wait here." Blount turned away and found old Barnabas holding the door open for him. A word passed, and the old negro bobbed his head. "Yas, sah; Marsteh David's in de libra'y," was the answer to Blount's query, and, throwing his overcoat and soft hat aside, the bearer of burdens not his own walked quickly through the hall and let himself into the room of trial. The bright autumn day was cool--cool enough to warrant the crackling wood-fire on the library hearth. With his easy chair planted at the cosey corner of the fire and an open book on the table at his elbow, the senator sat smoking his long-stemmed pipe in the Sunday afternoon quiet. Mingled with the fire-snapping there were faint tappings, as if one of the cottonwoods, growing too near the house, were sending twig signals to the inmates. The senator moved the open book a little farther aside when his son made an abrupt entrance into the cheerful room. "Well, son, you made out to get here after so long a time, didn't you?" he said gently. And then: "How's the broken head to-day?" "Better," answered the son shortly, adding: "It's the least of my troubles just now." "That's good," was the hearty comment. Then, with the long stem of the pipe pointing to a Morris-chair: "Draw up and sit down. I reckon the drive has tired you some, even if you won't admit it. Where's the little girl?" Evan Blount saw instantly that he must be brief and pitiless. "Patricia is waiting in the car to drive me back to town," he explained, forcing himself to speak calmly. "I have an appointment with Chief Justice Hemingway which must be kept, and he will wait in his chambers in the Capitol only until five o'clock. Father, do you know why I have made that appointment?" The senator wagged his great head in a way which might mean anything or nothing, and said: "How should I know, son?"