"De cyar's at de do', Marsteh David, and Mistis say she plumb ready when
you is, yes-sah," stammered the serving-man, holding the coat for his
master; and a moment later the senator was climbing to his place behind
the big wheel of the touring-car, with Mrs. Honoria for his seat-mate on
the mechanician's side, and the chauffeur, the horse wrangler, and Billy
Shack comfortably filling the tonneau.
While the touring-car, with its curiously assorted complement of
passengers, was leaving Wartrace Hall, Evan Blount, having assured
himself that Patricia was not hurt, was trying to estimate the extent
of the damage done to the little red roadster by the collision with the
tree. The inspection was brief. With the front axle bent and the
radiator crushed, the car was safely out of commission.
"We're definitely out of the fight," he reported shortly, helping his
companion down from the driving-seat.
Patricia was still trembling and pale.
"You mean that we can't go on to the city?" she quavered.
"Not unless we walk; and of course that is out of the question."
"Then you--you can't keep your appointment with Judge Hemingway."
Blount's smile was scornful. "I imagine it was no part of my father's
plans that I should keep my appointment," he commented bitterly. "He
took it for granted that I would drive out to Wartrace with you, and
made his preparations accordingly.
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