He wondered vaguely what Barto could be doing at the turn in the
obstructed side-canyon road, and the wonder went with him while the
little car was covering the remaining distance and flying up the
cottonwood-shaded avenue at Wartrace Hall. But a glance at his watch
made him forget the Barto incident in a heart-warming thrill of
admiration--the joy of a skilled motorist recognizing kindred skill in
another. The thirty miles from the city had been made in something under
fifty minutes.
When she brought the roadster to a stand at the carriage entrance,
Patricia spoke for the first time since she had taken the wheel for the
record-breaking drive.
"Find your father quickly and say to him what you have come to say. When
you are ready to go back, I'll keep my promise and drive you."
"That won't be at all necessary," he protested, getting out to stand
with his hand on the dash. "I am perfectly well able to drive myself;
and, besides, it would leave you at the wrong end of the road, and
alone."
"Don't stand there talking about it," she commanded. "Go and do what you
have to do. I'll wait here."
Blount turned away and found old Barnabas holding the door open for him.
A word passed, and the old negro bobbed his head. "Yas, sah; Marsteh
David's in de libra'y," was the answer to Blount's query, and, throwing
his overcoat and soft hat aside, the bearer of burdens not his own
walked quickly through the hall and let himself into the room of trial.
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