for?"

Corrie's full red lips closed, his blue eyes braved Gerard's.

"I will not. Gerard, I cannot. To go back as the millionaire amateur of
the pink car, to stand the toleration of the professional drivers, who
cannot really handle their machines better than I can mine, to know that
the story of how you were wrecked is being whispered after me--I'm not
big enough to face it all! I might be challenged and sent off the track,
for all I know."

"You will not go back as an amateur," Gerard corrected. "You are entered
and registered as a professional automobile racer, enrolled on the books
of the A.M.A., under their protection and subject to their rules and
authority for the future. You will find your certificate of the fact
lying on your table. Yes, I did it without consulting you. You signed
the necessary papers yourself, without reading them, and you cannot undo
this without a formal resignation--unless you contrive to get yourself
suspended."

Corrie's fingers gripped the wheel, the varying expressions changing his
face like storm-swept water, while the hunger of his gaze besought
Gerard.

"You--it's _true_? Gerard, you've done _that_ for me? They, the A.M.A.
officers, they accepted me?"

"Yes. Once for all, there are no whispers connecting you with my
accident. That matter is dead. You go back to the racing as a recognized
driver in the employ of the Mercury Company, I acting as your manager
and Jack Rupert as your mechanician. Do you think it probable that
anyone would credit the idea of trouble between us, Corrie?"

"Give me a moment, or I'll lose the only honor I've kept," said Corrie
Rose, and turned away his face. "I shall do whatever you bid me, of
course."

XIV

VAL DE ROSAS

On the day that Corrie in his American home consented to drive the
Mercury Titan through the racing season, Flavia and Mr. Rose arrived at
the tiny Spanish village of Val de Rosas--arrived, not so much through
design as through the bursting of a tire on their motor car.

"It seems as if the name of the place might be one of our lost titles,"
observed Mr. Rose idly. "And there is the castle to match, on the
hillside. Come stroll through the town, my girl, while Lenoir repairs
damages."

Smiling, Flavia stepped down beside him, throwing back her silk veils
and lifting her fair, almost too delicate face to the Andalusian
sunshine. After her stepped a great dog, with the sedate,
matter-of-course bearing of a constant a