his company this day; the horse is plastered
with clay and stoned far out into some woods, the brake thrown off for
the plunge from the crest of the hill--and then as the car starts
rolling and Tim grins boldly up into the black tumbling sky a dazzle of
light strikes through his plotting little brain.

And in this instant the little vagabond who has arrived at Barlow and
his tremendous partnership with Dan Regan by the route leading through
Molly's cottage on a stormy night--in this instant with the car rumbling
on its way to wreck itself and the Suburban, Tim Cannon understands
that the thing will not do at all. The tremendous partnership is not,
nor ever can be.

Such a revelation has come to many an ambitious man about to commit a
crime or betray a trust. Cowardice or conscience may unnerve him; or on
the other hand he may be fearless and willing, and yet not able to go
on, realizing suddenly the thing will not do at all. It is not destined.
And then remorse or dread seizes on the coward, and disappointment on
the bold who would have gone on if it had been so destined.

But divil a bit does remorse seize on Tim Cannon, being a person of no
moral convictions whatever; and as for dread and disappointment--one
moment he steadies his darkling blue eyes on the aspect of them, and the
next is racing after the car, swinging aboard, and setting the brakes,
though the wheels lock and coast on down the rails, slippery with rain.
For it is not the nature of him to falter or to parley with
fortune--when she declares against him he takes his loss though it be
that of life or limb, and quits the game.

Y'understand that perhaps his knees quake and buckle and a yelp of
terror is driven out of his bony breast--beating so high with ambition
but a moment before--but the spirit does not quail as he releases the
brake, sets it again slowly, carefully; the wheels revolve and begin to
feel the grip of the brake shoe. Still the car seems streaking to such a
wreck as will mangle him with broken rods and torn sheet steel at the
bottom of the gulch. Instead, by a miracle it takes the curve with only
a roar and crash of glass. Tim Cannon has held the car to the rails and
the Barlow Suburban to its charter.

The storm deepens and darkens round the lonely little car and its
driver, who stands erect and still with hands on the brake considering
his treason to Regan's ambitions and his own. The cause does not have to
be searched for.

"Sure