Dinner at the Rose house took place about two hours after the corresponding meal occurred at the farmhouse near the Westbury Turn. So while Corrie was walking through his five miles of desolate, dark road, the evening became well under way in the country parlor; sick-room no longer.

There had been changes in the room since Gerard's occupancy of it. Bright rugs and coverings mitigated the severity of the horse-hair furniture, a couple of easy-chairs stood there like velvet-clad cavaliers in a Puritan meeting. If the hues ran to vivid scarlets and unexpected contrasts, why, Rupert had done the shopping and had consulted his own taste. In the midst of his artistic work, that one-time mechanician and self-installed nurse of Gerard's was now seated beside a red-shaded lamp, engaged in reading aloud to his companion from a classic found on the family book-shelf.

"'Thaddeus, his eyes cast down, glided from the room in a gentle suffusion of tears,'" he concluded a paragraph, and broke off, stunned. "Gee! And I was understanding that was a man! I ain't qualified for the judges' stand, but—did you ever strike this joy-promoting endurance run of language before?"

"Once. I didn't have you to read it to me, or I would have enjoyed it more," Gerard returned, stirring in his arm-chair opposite the ruddily glowing German stove. "Don't you want to give me a cigarette; I haven't had one since noon."

He was thinner and still colorless, otherwise there was little to show what the last month and a half had meant to Allan Gerard. Except when he rose or moved, the inert uselessness of his right arm was not obvious. And however hard the battles and rebellion he inwardly had passed through, tone or expression carried no outward intelligence of past conflict as he smiled across at his entertainer. Gerard possessed in full measure that Anglo-Saxon reticence which abhors the useless display of emotions. Rupert balanced the volume upon his knee and proceeded to comply with the request, twisting his dark little face sardonically.

"When I was racing with Darling French," he reminisced, "we gave out of oil, once, on a practice run across country. There was a house by the busy curb representing itself as the only one combination garage and grocery store, so Darling contracted for a can of warranted cylinder oil in a speed dash that left the man all used up and rattling mad. Being in some haste, we didn't look up that can's inner life, but chucked the stuff where it would do the most good."

"Poor quality?"

"I ain't saying so. The complaint wasn't quality, it was kind. That can surrounded the finest brand of Koko Korn syrup, extra rich. They had to knock down our motor with a set of cooking utensils, and the man who did the job said it was a candied peach."

Gerard laughed.

"Well?" he anticipated.

"Here's your smoke. Well, that type of literature makes my thinks-motor feel as if molasses was being poured into it for lubrication—it sticks. Will you take it hard if I raise my voice over the sporting page of the evening paper, instead?"

Gerard nodded consent, but checked the reply on his lips, listening. The outer door had opened and closed, someone could be heard speaking to the mistress of the house.

"Corrie Rose!" he marvelled.

Rupert carefully laid Thaddeus on the table and stood up, straightening his small, wiry figure. "I'll crank up and run out," he observed nonchalantly. "Signal when you want me back."

There was no need of explanation; since the day of the Mercury's wreck, Rupert had never voluntarily remained in the same room with Corrie or had exchanged speech with him. The two passed at the doorway, now, with a curt nod on the part of the mechanician in response to the visitor's salute.

It was not a heartening reception, nor could Gerard's cordial greeting lift the shadow of it from Corrie's expression. That long solitary walk had left his young face drawn with a white fatigue not physical. But his eyes did not avoid Gerard's, and for the first time he spoke of the subject always present in the minds of both.

"You ought to hate the sight of me worse than Rupert does," he abruptly opened. "But—you don't. I don't know why, but you don't."

"No, I certainly do not," Gerard confirmed, his grave eyes on his guest.

Corrie rested one hand upon the narrow mantel, looking down at the fire-bright squares of the stove. He still wore his gray overcoat and held his cap, as if prepared to accept dismissal.

"You understand how easily things can go wrong," he said. "I never used to understand that, but I do now. You have seen drivers go wild in the race fever, more than once. We have both seen the nicest, sweetest fellows curse and strike their mechanicians because of a lost minute, seen men whose nerve never balked at a risk sit down and cry like girls when their car went out of a race. There is a mark on my car now where Ralph Stanton once scraped off the paint in passing because I was slow in getting out of his way. I suppose you judged mine such a case and forgave a moment's insanity. No one else ever will. You," his violet-blue eyes suddenly sought the other man's, "you won't think I am trying to excuse any such thing as was done to you or to justify my part."

"No," Gerard answered, compassionately translating the last weeks' writing on the candid face. "I am not likely to think that, Corrie. But do not give me credit not due; I am not unusually forgiving or wise, it is, indeed, merely that I understand fairly well. And when one understands the other man, there seldom is anything to forgive."

"Thank you. It's because you always understand one that I've come here to-night. I, I guess I've about realized that I'm not quite nineteen years old yet and pretty much a fool. I don't suppose anyone ever meant better than I did, or ever did worse at it. Gerard, my father has sent me off. Oh, not like that!" as the other man moved, startled. "I mean, he has told me to go away for a year or two, anywhere I like, until people forget. He says he doesn't want to see me for a while. No one does, except my sister. There is no one on earth for whom I care who looks the same as before at me except her, and you. I'm sent off to live alone and I have never been alone in my life. I'm afraid of myself, sick, afraid to be alone—take me with you."

"Corrie?"

The boy's impetuous gesture interrupted.

"Don't say no! It ought to kill me to look at you, it almost does, but it's worse away. Let me go where you are going, let me work in your factory, if it's at shovelling coal. Don't send me off alone with more money than I can spend and nothing to do with myself. I can't stand it—I'd go under! You would better have let Rupert send me to prison for wrecking your car. I've tried to stand what seemed up to me, but I'm near my limit. Gerard, help me see it through."

There was a quality of desperation in the appeal that was like a clutching grasp. Gerard felt his own nerves draw tense while his answer leaped to the present and future need.

"You are the exact man I want at the factory, Corrie," he assured, with all steadying naturalness and calm. "Take off your overcoat and come sit down; you are not going right out again. I've got work for you that will keep you guessing, as Rupert says. Let me see, it's eight o'clock and you walked over; I'll wager you have had no dinner."

"I don't want anything," Corrie refused, his face averted, his fingers gripping the mantel-shelf until his nails showed white from pressure.

"All right; I do. I declined my coffee and some of Mrs. Carter's ambrosial apple pie, this evening, and I have been repenting ever since. You are a fine pretext for having them brought in to us now. Besides, I shall have to keep you in good shape if you are going to help me put through a scheme of mine. Of course, I am not altering my plan of living merely because I have got one arm to use in place of two. I have to have some things done for me instead of doing them myself, that's all. I need you," he paused, and lifted to his companion the cordial brilliancy of his smile, "and I am glad to have you, Corrie."

When, an hour later, the guest rose to depart, Gerard detained him for a final word.

"One thing before you go," he said, with a quiet force of command that belonged to the other Allan Gerard whom Corrie had not yet encountered—the master of many men and affairs, instead of the racing driver and social playmate. "We will not speak again of the subject we have concluded to-night. I do not wish the accident to the Mercury recalled or discussed between us, ever. We are beyond that. Good night; I suppose you would rather start with me, day after to-morrow, than alone, later?"

Long afterward Gerard came to remember that straight glance of utter helplessness and struggling confusion from Corrie's tired eyes.

"I, I can't think," confessed Corrie Rose. "I'm in too deep to find a way out. I—my head——" he pushed back his heavy fair hair. "Yes, I'd rather start with you, if you will let me. Tell me whatever you want of me, Gerard; I'll always do it. Good night."

The closing of the outer door was the signal for Rupert's return to the parlor.

"Your time on the track is up," he reminded, "and you need your sleeps."

"I am not sleepy, Rupert. We will go home to the factory, day after to-morrow, and continue work on that special racing car of mine. Corrie Rose is going to drive it when it is done, since I cannot."

The mechanician slowly stiffened.

"Not precisely?" he refused credence.

"Oh, yes; for practice and testing, at first, and racing later. Until it is built I shall put him in training on one of the ninety Mercuries. He doesn't yet know anything about it, himself, and he isn't going to be told until I am ready. You are going to ride with him and break him in. He has to be taught a good deal to change him from a clever amateur to a professional driver."

"When I sit in a car beside Rose, it'll be because I'm taking him to be lynched," Rupert explicitly set forth.

"Really?"

"Yes, dearest."

Gerard rested his head against the cushioned chair-back and met the inflexible black eyes with the cool, mischievous resolution of his own regard, saying nothing at all.