On the morning he took train for Chicago Doris and Rosalie, with their shabby bags, were tucked into MacCammon's car among his portfolios and manuscripts. Curiously enough, Doris insisted on sitting in the back seat alone.
"Please," she said, when MacCammon and Rosalie both protested. "I am so tired and fidgety. When I am in front I sit up straight and watch the road every minute. But in the back I can settle down and rest. Let Rosalie sit in front, she likes to watch the road and get excited, and squeal when you spin on the corners."
Rosalie and MacCammon eyed each other grimly when Doris slipped into her chosen place without waiting for the help of a friendly hand.
"The bishop," whispered MacCammon ominously.
"The bishop your grandmother," thought Rosalie, turning around to squint thoughtfully at her sister.
The first twenty-five miles were traversed in absolute silence, MacCammon driving with grim and rigid energy, Rosalie looking through half-closed lids reflectively into space, Doris crouching in the corner of the back seat alone.
Thirty-five miles—and then MacCammon laughed suddenly.
"Hang the bishop," he said in a low voice.
Rosalie laughed with him. "You can't hang him—it isn't orthodox."
"Burn him at the stake then. She hasn't— Anyhow, I don't—I am not going to get cold feet yet— That— There is no reason—"