Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/275

Rh "One what?" he demanded.

"The same as I am," I replied, suddenly dreading to use the ugly word which had risen to my lips.

"I'm worse!" he avowed, as he speeded up again.

"You're at least a good driver," I admitted. For we had traveled far and fast that night. If the next turn of the road had showed us the blue waters of Lake Ontario I don't think I'd have blinked an eye.

"You have to be a good driver, in this business," my Hero-Man finally retorted.

But even that open acknowledgment of his evil ways didn't disturb me. If your thirteenth never tastes good, as some wise cynic has observed, it's equally true that your thirteenth nervous shock in one night isn't going to come like a thunder-clap.

But we still speeded along that unknown road. And I began to be languidly interested in our equally unknown destination.

"But where do we happen to be going?" I mildly inquired. I could see the stars shining through a rift in the clouds. It was no longer raining.

Wendy Washburn turned his head and looked at me.

"Watch your road," I reminded him. The old half-quizzical smile was once more on his face as