"We gotta big six roadster, and a first-class driver. It'll cost you seventy-five dollars—in advance."
"Your money will be waiting for you here," she answered calmly. "How soon can you bring the car around to the Hotel Granada?"
"In ten minutes, if you say so."
"Say twenty minutes, then."
"All right."
She dressed herself, took the elevator down to the lobby, instructed the night clerk to have a maid pack her trunk and send it by express to Hopyard, care of St. Allwoods Hotel on the lake. Then she walked out to the broad-stepped carriage entrance.
A low-hung long-hooded, yellow car stood there, exhaust purring faintly. She paid the driver, sank into the soft upholstering beside him, and the big six slid out into the street. There was no traffic. In a few minutes they were on the outskirts of the city, the long asphalt ribbon of King's Way lying like a silver band between green, bushy walls. They crossed the last car track. The driver spoke to her out of one corner of his mouth.
"Wanna make time, huh?"
"I want to get to Roaring Lake as quickly as you can drive, without taking chances."
"I know the road pretty well," he assured her. "Drove a party clear to Rosebud day before yesterday. I'll do the best I can. Can't drive too fast at night. Too smoky."