"I don't mind risking my own neck, I'm used to that," gritted an old-time comrade to Gerard, during a pause for refilling tanks. "It's the people under foot; —— them! Haven't they any sense? Jim's Marathon hit a man, ten minutes ago; he's still driving, half crazy, because he can't stop. Damn the country police!"
"Rose——?"
"Rose is changing tires at the Westbury turn. I'm off."
That bit of news spared a bad quarter-hour to the two who loved Corrie.
Gerard was at the front of the camp, watching for his car, when he felt a hand lain on his shoulder.
"Some racer just went off the turnpike into the ditch," Mr. Rose's subdued tones informed him. "Where's Corrie?"
"Safe; changing tires on this side of the turnpike," Gerard gave quick assurance. "It's not he. But this has been a bad day; I'm not surprised that you couldn't keep away from here."
"I couldn't keep away," Mr. Rose assented heavily. He drew out his handkerchief and passed it across his forehead, damp under the line of reddish-gray hair, pushing open his overcoat with the abrupt gesture that was also a habit of his son's. "I've had a hell of an hour where I was, Gerard. This morning I got a letter from my niece, Isabel. It seems she is married and her husband made her write it."
The two men looked fully at each other; some quality in Thomas Rose's expression communicated its white reflection to Gerard's changing face.