"No; but I'm sick of this dance," she said fiercely. "Take me for a spin, Dick."
"Right. But the roads are pretty bad in the dark, you know."
Gay pondered a moment.
"The Selukine road isn't bad"—she paused a moment, then slowly added, "and the road to Glendora."
It was Tryon's turn to ponder. The road to the Glendora was the worst in the country, but it didn't take him long to read the riddle.
"Come on, then!" he said abruptly. "Shall I get your cloak?"
"No; let me wear your things, Dick." She took up a big motor-coat and deer-stalker from the driving-seat and slipped into them. The rose-pink gown disappeared and was lost under the darkness of tweed, and the cap covered her bright hair. She sat well back in the shadows of the tonneau.
Tryon set the car going, climbed moodily into the lonely driving-seat, and steered away into the darkness just as the music stopped and a crowd of dancers came pouring out of the ballroom.
The Glendora lay west of the town, and the road to it ran past the club. As luck would have it, a man coming from the latter place, and pushing a bicycle before him, almost collided with them, causing Tryon to pull up short.
"Is that you, Emma Guthrie?" he called irritably.