"I will take this with me," he said, picking up an important article, "and read it on the journey. I will send it back in the motor."
A quarter of an hour later he was being carried at full speed in a twenty-horse power Fiat car towards Grey Town.
"If you delay one moment; if you blow out, or even puncture, I will never employ you again," he remarked to the chauffeur.
"It's all luck," the driver answered, indignantly.
"I prefer lucky men," Denis replied. "Now drive like the very deuce."
Nursing his outraged dignity, the chauffeur sent the car at its topmost speed on the long road to Grey Town. This was his lucky trip; stray nails there were in plenty, also dangerous places, but the Fiat raced through in six hours. Denis sat rigidly perusing and correcting the article, determined not to think of grey sorrow at the other end. Once he groaned to himself.
"The last good thing in life, and I am to close it. But, there is work—and the Church, thank God!"
Then he made a further correction, folded the article, and placed it in an envelope. This he confided to the chauffeur.
"I like you," he remarked; "you can be as reckless as I when it is necessary. I shall want a driver soon. Would you take the post?"