“Why, Helen!” cried Clay Varron, swinging around. “Were you driving that Fanchon? What the deuce made you do it? I have often heard your father tell you that you must never drive a new car until he has tested it thoroughly himself.”
“Well, I tested this one for him,” laughed Helen Ranfelt. “I don’t think he will have any more trouble with it. If it had not been for this gentleman,” smiling at Stanley, “he might not have had any more trouble with his daughter, either.”
“It was a perilous proceeding all around,” said Stanley. “But I am relieved to see that it had no serious outcome—except for the car. By the way, Clay,” he went on, turning to Varron, “perhaps you won’t mind vouching for me as a respectable member of society to Miss——”
“What? Never been introduced?” cried Clay, astonished. “Well, well! This is Mr. Stanley Downs, of New York—Miss Helen Ranfelt. You know her father, L. K. Ranfelt—Stanley, by name, at least. There is their home up there on the mountain. You can just see it through the foliage—that white house, with the golden cupola.”
“Of course I have heard of Mr. Ranfelt,” returned Stanley, when he had acknowledged the introduction with a bow, and had absorbed a most fascinating smile from the young lady. “Who has not? His mines in Nevada——”
“Oh, yes!” broke in Helen Ranfelt. “That is always the way. Everybody has heard that dad has made many millions out of his mines, and that they are still producing. But hardly any one knows that he would be a great man, even if he had never got to be a millionaire. You ought to see him drive a Fanchon, Mr. Downs—or any other car! No fear of his driving into a lake. He makes a car do just what he likes. And it is the same with everything else he does.”
Clay Varron smiled approvingly.
“That’s so, Helen. He’s a mighty smart man, and I’ll say it, even though he is my uncle. By the way, now that I’ve met you, I guess I’ll drive you home—if you want to go. I haven’t seen Uncle Larry for more than a year.”
“I heard that you’ve lost something from your car, Mr. Downs,” said Helen. “Some money. Don’t you think you can recover it?”
“I’m afraid not,” was the doleful reply. “The lake is fifty feet deep right here, and much more as it approaches the center. It was a bundle of bank notes, wrapped up in paper. The water would destroy them in a very short time, and there is little chance of dredging up the fragments. No, I’m afraid it is a dead loss.”