ishment as they shot along. Corners meant no slackening of the speed, and within the car Val, for all his bulk, rattled around like a pebble.
“Give er the gas!” he shouted out to the driver. “Faster! Can’t you go faster!”
The driver said nothing, but the maker of the car would have been glad to get his testimonial of the speed of which it was capable. It was not something for any automobile manufacturer to be ashamed of. Now that he had time to think of it, Val was beginning to be alarmed for the girl. Surely, it must be something of vast importance that would cause her to send for him so late at night.
She was in danger! Perhaps, even now, whatever it was that was menacing her had overtaken her. Perhaps by now she was lying white and still⸺”
“Speed ’er up!” he shouted to the driver, who grunted something unintelligible in reply. Val’s strained, white face gazed at the backward flying, slumberous streets; his soul was leaping far ahead of the car, straining to get to the side of his well-beloved. The car swept around a corner into Jessica’s street, and with a grind of brakes slowed up in front of the house.
“Here y’are, sir,” said the driver.
Val banged the door open and leaped out.
“Wait here!” he directed and plunged for the dark vestibule.
He turned to the bells to find the name of Pomeroy. It was so dark he could not make it out, and he leaned forward further.
Suddenly a million constellations burst before his eyes. Flowers bloomed and birds sang—or perhaps
