Tea was served in the quaint old dining room, for Mrs. Ford, though keeping up many old customs, had adopted some modern ones, and her house was perfection itself. “I suppose your brother told you these papers were rather valuable; did he not?” asked Mrs. Ford a little later, as she brought Grace a rather bulky package. “Yes, grandma.” “And if they should happen to fall into other hands it might make trouble—at least for a time.” “Yes. I will take good care of them.” “How can you carry them?” “In the saddle. Will had pockets, made especially for his needs. They will fit nicety. I looked before starting out.” “Very good. Then I won’t keep you. Trot along. It does look as though we would have a storm. I hope you get back before it breaks. I would ask you to stay, but I know your father is waiting for those papers.” “Yes, Will said he wanted them quickly. Oh, well, I think I can out-race the storm,” and Grace laughed. She found that she really would have to race when, a little later, out on the main road, the distant rumble of thunder was heard. “Come, Prince!” she called. “We must see what we can do. Your best foot foremost, old fellow!” The horse whinnied in answer, and swung into an easy gallop that covered the ground well. The clouds gathered thicker and faster. Now and then their black masses would be split by jagged flashes of lightning, that presaged the rumbling report of heaven’s artillery which seemed drawing nearer to engage in the battle of the sky. “Prince, we are going to get wet, I’m very much afraid,” Grace exclaimed. “And yet—well, we’ll try a little faster pace!” She touched the animal lightly with the crop, and he fairly leaped into greater speed. But it was only too evident that they could not escape the storm. The clouds were more lowering now, and the bursts of thunder followed more quickly on the heels of the lightning flashes. Then came a few angry dashes of rain, as though to give sample of what was to follow. “Come, Prince!” cried Grace. Suddenly from behind there came another sound. It was the deep staccato of the exhaust of an automobile, with opened muffler. It was tearing along the road. Grace glanced back and saw a low, dust-covered racing car, rakish and low-hung, swinging along. It was evident that the occupants—two young men—were putting on speed to get to some shelter before the storm broke in all its fury. Prince jumped nervously and shied to one side at the sound of the on-coming car. “Quiet, old fellow,” said Grace, soothingly. The car shot past her, and at the same moment Prince waltzed to one side, or else the car swerved, so that only by the narrowest margin was a terrible accident averted. Grace heard the men shout, and there was a wilder burst of the opened muffler. Then she felt a shock, and she knew that the machine had struck and grazed Prince. She glanced down and saw a red streak on his off fore shoulder. He had been cut by some part of the car.