But Corrie was not in a mood to go slowly, so that they almost missed the driveway that branched from the macadam track to curve around into a park set thickly with fragrant cedars, central in which grove stood the quaintly stiff house of dark brick and stone.
"Run around to the garage," Gerard directed. "Since you will want the car all the time, you might as well keep it here and use the short cut out to the road. I will get out here and go into the house."
Corrie obediently bent to his levers.
"All the time?" he repeated, with an indrawn breath of reluctant ecstasy. "All the time!"
As Gerard turned to the house, a small figure advanced to meet him.
"We've sent out a gang to massage some of the freckles defacing the speedway," Rupert informed him. "Briggs chugged in with a broken spring, Norris side-wiped a fence, and Phillips fell into a hole without publishing a notice, so that his mechanician got off over the bonnet and broke his collar-bone. That ain't testing cars, it's promoting funerals. It's easier to motor into heaven on that road than to drive a camel in New York. What?"
"Yes, have it put in order, of course. I supposed that Mr. Dalton would attend to the matter, since I was out. Rupert, who is the sharpest-tongued, most cross-grained and least ceremonious mechanician we have?"
"I am," was the prompt reply. "Were you wanting me?"
Gerard looked at him and laughed.
"You have ruled yourself off the list of eligibles," he declared. "I want a man to ride with Corrie Rose."