“Oh, don’t get sore. I called The Elms, too. Miss Anderson said it was all O. K. I told her we’d met with an accident—a real accident—and if she didn’t believe it, she could call the Mohawk Garage and find out if I hadn’t sent there for aid.”
“You called Miss Anderson? She said it would be all right? On your honor?”
“On my honor!”
He lurched up into the machine and Madelaine had to make room for him in the single seat.
“Mind cigarette smoke?” he asked. “It’ll keep off the mosquitoes.”
The girl was greatly troubled. She wished she could believe that when Gordon swore “on his honor,” it was his honor.
“Great out here in the country, this time o’ night, ain’t it?” observed the fellow, idly turning the impotent gas and spark levers beneath the wheel.
“How far was it, Gordon, to the house where you telephoned?”
“Oh, I dunno. Couple of miles, I guess. Forget it, Madge! Too dark now for you to make it through all that bog, anyhow.”
Gordon twisted his body around and rested one arm along the seat-back behind her.