But Oliver was at the bottom of the steps waiting for the automobile. It swung around the curve in the drive and came to an unbelievably gentle stop—almost what might be called a tender stop—in precisely the right spot. Oliver reached out his hand and opened the front door of the car without changing his position so much as an inch.
“Perfect!” said Mrs. Sage, who sat beside the driver.
“The best trained automobile in America,” said Sammy, with his customary modesty. “Kindness is what does it.”
“So sorry to be late,” said she, as Oliver ceremoniously handed her out of the car. “Good evening, Mrs. Grimes. Is the soup cold?”
“It was all Sammy’s fault,” cried Sammy’s wife. “He poked along at only forty miles an hour.”
“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Sage, drawing his first full, free breath; “we were exactly three minutes coming from my house to—”
“Had to slow down a bit on Clay Street,” explained Sammy. “Evening, Mrs. Grimes. Step lively, Muriel! You’re holding up the procession.” He gave two short, imperative honks. “That means full speed ahead.”
“What is this I hear, Oliver?” said the minister as he stepped out of the car. Jane and Mrs. Sammy had preceded him. “Is it true the detectives are here and expect to start this ridiculous search to-morrow?”
“They’re here all right,” replied Oliver. “One of them tried to sell you a set of Dickens the other day.”
“What!” cried Jane, gripping Oliver’s arm. “Was that man a detective?” She was startled.