he night's events were not yet ended. An automobile left the edge of
the stone-yard, followed a lane and turned into the main highway, where
it encountered a woman standing in the middle of the road and waving
her arms. She was distinctly visible in the moonlight.

The man with the monocle slowed the car and came to a sudden stop,
rather than run her down.

"What's the matter?" he demanded impatiently.

"Wait a minute; I want to talk to you."

"Can't stop," he replied in a querulous tone. "I've got fifty miles to
make before daylight. Out of my way, woman."

With a dexterous motion she opened the door and sprang into the seat
beside him.

"Here! Get out of this," he cried.

"Drive on," she said calmly. "It'll save time, since you're in a
hurry."

"Get out!"

"I'm going to ride with you. Why bother to argue?"

He turned nervously in his seat to get a look at her, then shifted the
clutch and slowly started the car. The woman sat quiet. While bumping
over the uneven road at a reckless speed the driver turned at times to
cast stealthy glances at the person beside him. Finally he asked in
exasperation:

"Do you know where I'm going?"

"You haven't told me."

"Do you know who I am?"

"How should I?"

"Oh, very well," with a sigh of relief. "But isn't this rather--er--
irregular?"

"Very."

Again he drove for a time in silence. In the direction they were
following they whirled by a village every three or four miles, but the
country roads were deserted and the nearest city of any size lay a good
fifty miles on.

"I don't know who you are," observed the woman presently, "but I can
hazard a guess. You call yourself Joselyn--Ned Joselyn--but that isn't
your name. It's the name you married Annabel Kenton under, but it
doesn't belong to you."

He gave a roar of anger and started to slow down the car.

"Go ahead!" she said imperatively.

"I won't. You're going to get out of here, and lively, too, or I'll
throw you out."

"Do you feel anything against your side?" she asked coolly.

"Yes," with a sudden start.

"It's the muzzle of a revolver. I think it's about opposite your heart
and my finger is on the trigger. Go ahead!"

He turned the throttle and the car resumed its former speed.

"Who the deuce are you?" he demanded, in a voice that trembled
slightly.

"Like yourself, I have many names," she said. "In Washington they call
me Nan Shelley; at Cragg's Crossing I'm Mrs. Scammel, formerly Nan
Cr