of the huge, machinery-crowded
room, the grimy men lifting their heads to gaze after Emily as she
passed. Once Lestrange paused to speak to a man who sat, note-book and
pencil in hand, beside another who manipulated under a grinding wheel
a delicate aluminum casting.

"Pardon," he apologized to Emily, who had lingered also. "Mathews
would have let that go wrong in another moment. He," his smile glanced
out, "he is not a Rupert at changing his tires, so to speak, but just
a good chauffeur."

The gay and natural allusion delighted her. For the first time in her
life Emily Ffrench laughed out in a genuine, mischievous sense of
adventure.

"Yes? I wonder you could separate yourself from that Rupert to come
here; he was a most bewildering person," she retorted.

"Separate from Rupert? Why, I would not think of racing a taxicab, as
he would say, without Rupert beside me. He is here taking a
post-graduate course in this type of car, in order to be up to his
work when we go down to Georgia next week."

"Next week? You expect to win that race?"

"No. We are running a stock car against some heavy foreign racing
machines; the chance of winning is slight. But I hope to outrun any
other American car on the course, if nothing goes wrong."

She looked up.

"And if something does?" she wondered.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Pray be careful of those moving belts behind you, Miss Ffrench. If
something does--there is a chance in every game worth playing."

"A chance!" her feminine nerves recoiled from the implied
consequences. "But only a chance, surely. You were never in an
accident, never were hurt?"

Lestrange regarded her in surprise mingled with a dawning raillery
infinitely indulgent.

"I had no accidents last season," he guardedly responded. "I've been
quite lucky. At least Rupert and I play our game unhampered; there
will be no broken hearts if we are picked up from under our car some
day."

They had reached the door while he spoke; as he put his hand on the
knob to open it, Emily saw a long zigzag scar running up the extended
arm from wrist to elbow, a mute commentary on the conversation. In
silence she passed out across the courtyard to where her red-wheeled
cart waited. But when Lestrange had put her in and given her the
reins, she held out her hand to him with more gravity.

"I shall wish you good luck for next week," she said.

Lestrange threw back his head, drawing a quick breath; here in the
strong s