nding down the mesa hill to the Boiling Water bridge what time the
hoister whistles were blowing the six-o'clock quitting signal. The
Kentuckian looked at his watch mechanically, as one will at some
familiar reminder of the time. Seven o'clock was the Castle 'Cadia
dinner hour: thirty minutes should suffice for the covering of the ten
miles of country road, and with the fates propitious there would be an
empty half-hour for the cajoling or compelling of Wingfield, imperilled
in his character of overcurious delver into other people's affairs.

So ran the reasonable prefiguring; but plans and prefigurings based upon
the performance of a gasolene motor call for a generous factor of
safety. Five miles from a tool-box in either direction, the engines of
the runabout set up an ominous knocking. A stop was made, and Ballard
filled and lighted his pipe while the chauffeur opened the bonnet and
tapped and pried and screwed and adjusted. Ten minutes were lost in the
testing and trying, and then the German named the trouble, with an
emphatic "_Himmel!_" for a foreword. A broken bolt-head had dropped into
the crank-case, and it would be necessary to take the engines to pieces
to get it out. Ballard consulted his watch again. It lacked only a
quarter of an hour of the Castle 'Cadia dinner-time; and a five-mile
tramp over the hills would consume at least an hour. Whatever danger
might be threatening the playwright (and the farther Ballard got away
from the revelations of the early afternoon, the more the entire fabric
of accusation threatened to crumble into the stuff nightmares are made
of), a delay of an hour or two could hardly bring it to a crisis. Hence,
when Otto lighted the lamps and got out his wrenches, his passenger
stayed with him and became a very efficient mechanic's helper.

This, as we have seen, was at a quarter before seven. At a quarter
before nine the broken bolt was replaced, the last nut was screwed home,
and the engines of the runabout were once more in commission.

"A handy bit of road repairing, Otto," was Ballard's comment. "And we
did it five miles from a lemon. How long will it take us to get in?"

The Berliner did not know. With no further bad luck, fifteen or twenty
minutes should be enough. And in fifteen minutes or less the little car
was racing up the maple-shaded avenue to the Castle 'Cadia carriage
entrance.

Ballard felt trouble in the air before he descended from the car. The
great portico was