and showing a face white with
fatigue under the streaks of dust and grime.

"I'll be all right in half an hour," he nodded, in answer to Dick's
exclamation. "Send one of the boys for coffee, will you, please?
Rupert needs some, too. Here, one of you others, ask one of those idle
doctor's apprentices to come over with a fresh bandage; my arm's a
trifle untidy."

In fact, his right sleeve was wet and red, where the strain of driving
had reopened the injury of the day before. But he would not allow Dick
to speak of it.

"I'm going to spend an hour or two resting. Come in, Ffrench, and
we'll chat in the intervals, if you like."

"And Rupert? Where's he?" Dick wondered, peering into the dark with a
vague impression of lurking dangers on every side.

"He's hurried in out of the night air," reassured familiar accents; a
small figure lounged across into the light, making vigorous use of a
dripping towel. "Tell Darling I feel faint and I'm going over to that
grand-stand cafe _a la_ car to get some pie. I'll be back in time to
read over my last lesson from the chauffeurs' correspondence school.
Oh, see what's here!"

A telegraph messenger boy had come up to Dick.

"Richard Ffrench?" he verified. "Sign, please."

The message was from New York.

"All coming down," Dick read. "Limousine making delay. Wire me St.
Royal of race. Bailey."

Far from pleased, young Ffrench hurriedly wrote the desired answer and
gave it to the boy to be sent. But he thrust the yellow envelope into
his pocket before turning to the tent where Lestrange was drinking
cheap black coffee while an impatient young surgeon hovered near.

The hour's rest was characteristically spent. Washed, bandaged, and
refreshed, Lestrange dropped on a cot in the back of the tent and
pushed a roll of motor garments beneath his head for a pillow. There
he intermittently spoke to his companion of whatever the moment
suggested; listening to every sound of the race and interspersing
acute comment, starting up whenever the voice of his own machine
hinted that the driver was disobeying instructions or the shrill
klaxon gave warning of trouble. But through it all Dick gathered much
of the family story.

"My mother was a Californian," Lestrange once said, coming back from a
tour of inspection. "She was twenty times as much alive as any Ffrench
that ever existed, I've been told. I fancy she passed that quality on
to me--you know she died when I was born--for I nearly dro