"Let's put the chauffeur inside and ride out in the air. The moon will be up directly."
Riever scowled, and a hateful answer leaped to his lips. But he bit it back. "All right," he mumbled.
And so they rode.
He proved to be a skillful chauffeur. There was something quite impressive in the nonchalant way he spun the wheel with one hand on a curve. He had a bland disregard for speed laws having learned that few constables had the temerity to stop so princely an equipage. They went through Camp Parole at forty miles an hour, but fortunately without hitting any of the dark-skinned inhabitants of that humble suburb. At the green light which marks the W. B. & A. station they turned sharply and streaked away to the South to the throaty growl of an open exhaust.
Their conversation was fitful as needs be on the front seat of a speeding car. But they were entirely friendly. The episode of the bracelet had been forgotten. Both pairs of eyes were hypnotized by the strong path of light on the yellow road before them. The bordering leafage was shown up in a queer chemical green like stage scenery. The moon came up, but what's moonlight to automobilists? The reticent moon disdains to compete with headlights.
When they were within a few miles of Absolom's Island, Riever glancing at the clock under the cowl, said:
"We've come too fast. I didn't order the boat until 9.45."
He took his foot off the accelerator and the big car loafed along. Relieved of the strain, their eyes were free to wander around. All Riever's glances were for Pen's profile. He said abruptly:
"You're a funny one! One would think you blamed me for having a lot of money."
"Not blame you," said Pen. "Though I think it's unjust somehow. But you didn't make conditions."