"Why—why should she come?"
"Keep quiet, Sam," then over her shoulder to Ferguson as the car began to move, "Bring Mrs. Babbitts, Dick. Take her with you."
The car glided off, Mr. Janney's voice floating back:
"But why, why—why do you want her?"
Ferguson's motor swung round the oval and came to a halt. The chauffeur jumped out, and, told he wasn't wanted, disappeared. The young man turned to me, not a smile out of him now.
"Come on, get in," he said and then giving a nod at one of the coats lying over a chair, "and bring that with you—it may blow up cold and it's a long run."
I did as I was told—there was something about him that made you do what he said—and jumped in. He came on my heels, snapped the door and we started. Before we got to the gates he speeded the machine up and in a few minutes we were close on the Janney motor which was flying along the woody road at a pace that would have strained the heart of a bicycle cop. Their dust came over us in a cloud, and Mr. Ferguson slowed down, and, his hand resting easy on the wheel, said:
"What does Mrs. Janney want you for?"
I'd hoped he hadn't noticed that, but in case he had I'd an answer ready.
"Maybe she thought I might have noticed if any one was hanging round lately—hanging round to size up the habits of the family and Bébita's movements."