“Yes. That’s right,” called out Stanley Downs at last. “‘Moussard Automobile Co., Buffalo. Will drive your Thunderbolt car in Lawrence Cup Race next Thursday. Coming to Buffalo to-morrow for trial. Stanley Downs.’ Get that?”
There was a pause, and Stanley Downs turned from the table, with a smile, as he hung up the transmitter. When he swung around, he found himself facing Helen Ranfelt, who was panting with excitement, and Victor Burnham, who scowled.
“Oh, Mr. Downs, isn’t that splendid?” cried Helen.
“I don’t know that it is,” said Stanley, laughing. “Except to me. I like driving fast, and, from all I can judge, there will be some rapid moving at the Prentiss Speedway next Thursday.”
“You have to go not less than eighty-five miles an hour to qualify,” grunted Burnham. “I suppose you know that?”
“I have studied the conditions of the race so often that T think I am familiar with them all,” replied Stanley, as he turned away.
Helen Ranfelt followed him out to the veranda and took his arm.
“Mr. Downs,” she whispered, and he noted a tremble in her soft tones.
“Yes?”