The operation and the drive that preceded it had occupied considerable time. It was an hour since the party had separated at the yacht club's pier. The brief interval of comparative clearness had given place to dark skies across which the capricious wind herded masses of gray cloud. And presently several drops of rain fell and trickled down the wind-shield of the car.
"Hurry," Isabel urged, sitting up with renewed animation. "It is going to pour."
"The little machine isn't capable of much hurrying on this road," Gerard regretted. "She hasn't any speed, of course. How far have we left to go?"
"A long way, seven or eight miles. We haven't passed the country club, yet."
"But Corrie drove over in an hour!"
"With his big car, yes," she retorted. "Perhaps this was not the best way, after all. But it would take longer to go back, now, than to keep on."
This was obvious. There was nothing to do except force the skidding, panting automobile to maintain its best gait.
They were destined to lose that race. As they came opposite a low brick building set amidst rolling green slopes and stretches of flag-dotted turf, the storm overtook them.
"Up the driveway," Isabel cried. "We can just make it. This is the country club—we'll 'phone home where we are staying."