But it was not the wreck she anticipated that met her eyes as she came through the hedge. On the opposite side of the road a long low skeleton car was standing, one side lurched drunkenly down with two wheels in the gutter. Still in his seat, the driver was leaning over the steering-wheel, out of breath, but laughing a greeting to the astonished Dick.
"A break in the steering-gear," he declared, by way of explanation. "I told Bailey it was a weak point; now perhaps he'll believe me and strengthen it."
"You're not hurt," Dick inferred.
"I think she's not—a tire gone. Find anything wrong, Rupert?"
"Two tires off," said the laconic mechanician. "Two funerals postponed. That was a pretty stop, Darling."
"Very," coolly agreed Lestrange, rising and removing his goggles. "What's the matter, Ffrench?"
"You frightened us out of our five senses, that's all. Do you usually practise for races out here?"
"Us?" repeated Lestrange, and turning, saw the girl at the edge of the park. "Miss Ffrench, I beg your pardon!"
The swift change in his tone, the ease of deference with which he bared his head and, motor caps not being readily donned or doffed, so remained bareheaded in the bright sunlight, savored of the Continent.
"It is too commonplace to say good morning," Emily replied, her color rising with her smile. "I am very glad you escaped. But that is commonplace, too, I'm afraid."