“That’s a new motor out there, isn’t it?” she asked at last.
“Yes.” Roberts roused and shook the scattered crumbs off his khaki coat. “It came while I was away. This is the first try-out.”
Miss Gleason was examining the big machine with a critical eye. “This is a six-cylinder, I judge. What’s become of the old four, Old—”
“Reliable?”
“Yes.”
“Disgraced its name.” Roberts smiled peculiarly. “I took it along with me when I went 221 West. It’s scrapped out there on the Nevada desert, God knows where, thirty miles from nowhere. I fancy the vultures are wondering right now what in the world it is.”
“You had an accident?”
“Rather.” Roberts got to his feet deliberately. “Some other time I’ll tell you the story, if you wish. It would take too long now, and it’s entirely too hot here.” He looked at his two listeners impartially. “Besides, there’s other business more urgent. I have a curiosity to see how quickly the six-eighty out there will eat up thirty miles. It’s guaranteed to do it in twenty-five minutes. Won’t you come along?
“I’ll take the rumble and you two sit forward,” he added as they hesitated. “You can drive as well as I can, Elice.”
“Not to-day; some other time,” declined Armstrong, hurriedly. He started up to avoid a change of purpose, and to cover any seeming precipitancy lit a cigarette with deliberation. “I was going, really, anyway.”