The sun sank down behind the Berkshires. The Connecticut valley was hushed and beautiful. Cattle lowed in moist barnyards along their way. They heard the clinking and squeaking of milk pails and the nicker of horses with heads hanging low over whitewashed paddock fences.
A dew mist hung above the glassy river. The world grew dreamy. Gordon turned off upon a country road. With a sudden twinge of alarm Madelaine lost her sense of direction.
“Where are you going, Gordon?” she demanded at the end of a half-hour.
“Oh, I know a short cut. You’ll see. Hell! What’s that?”
They had passed through a thickly shadowed wood. The road opened out between a hill of undergrowth on one side and a pasture on the other. No houses were in sight. They were surrounded by typical western Massachusetts country. And the car had stopped abruptly.
The boy alighted, raised the hood, tinkered with the engine. He cranked several times in silence. At first Madelaine was interested. Then she grew annoyed. Gordon did not appear out of temper. This was unnatural. He even stood off, looked at the machine and—grinned.
“Has anything gone wrong—seriously wrong?” the girl demanded.
“Don’t know yet. Hope not!”
He toyed with the engine again, even going to the trouble of producing a bag of tools. Then he lighted a cigarette, inhaled a head full and opined:
“This looks like a peach of a fix, Madge. It’s lucky I’m your cousin!”