She leaned forward in the seat, arms outstretched as if holding a tugging wheel, eyes set straight ahead, slippered feet threading imaginary levers, graceful body swerving.
He watched her, frowning. A vague purpose seemed to animate the hand groping with the levers.
"Wake up, Palmer! It's time for the race—the Vanderbilt Cup. Kirby and Michaels have started. There's Wharton coming to the line. Don't you see the crowds? Can't you hear them cheering? Palmer! Palmer! * * * Yes, we're coming! * * * Palmer is coming back. * * * Way there!"
He found the self-starter; the engine sounded. He found the clutch and gears. His eyes were shut. The car started slowly and he opened his eyes. Pauline sank back in the seat, laughing and clapping her hands, half hysterically.
"Bravo, Palmer!" she exulted.
The astonished workmen saw them glide through the outer gate. Raymond Owen from his window saw them and rubbed his hands pleasantly. Fate indeed seemed to be favoring his deadly work today!
The car swung into the highway.
"Drive faster," commanded Pauline.
The listless hands hardened on the wheel. She saw him bend over and fix his vision on the road. She thrilled at the miracle she had wrought.
More speed, and the wind blew her cape from her shoulders; the dust beat in her face. She merely tightened her veil and sat silent.