Without answering the question, Demorest turned to his companion with
the same good-natured, half humorous authority. "Let your wife wait;
take a drive with me. I want to talk to you. She'll be just as glad to
see you an hour later, and it's her fault if I can't come home with you
now."

"I know it," returned his companion, in a tone of half-annoyed apology.
"She still sticks to her old compact when we first married, that she
shouldn't be obliged to receive my old worldly friends. And, see here,
Dick, I thought I'd talked her out of it as regards YOU at least, but
Parson Thomas has been raking up all the old stories about you--you
know that affair of the Fall River widow, and that breaking off of Garry
Spofferth's match--and about your horse-racing--until--you know, she's
more set than ever against knowing you."

"That's not a bad sort of horse you've got there," interrupted Demorest,
who usually conducted conversation without reference to alien topics
suggested by others. "Where did you get him? He's good yet for a spin
down the turnpike and over the bridge. We'll do it, and I'll bring you
home safely to Mrs. Blandford inside the hour."

Blandford knew little of horseflesh, but like all men he was not
superior to this implied compliment to his knowledge. He resigned
himself to his companion as he had been in the habit of doing, and
Demorest hurried the horse at a rapid gait down the street until they
left the lamps behind, and were fully on the dark turnpike. The sleet
rattled against the hood and leathern apron of the buggy, gusts of
fierce wind filled the vehicle and seemed to hold it back, but Demorest
did not appear to mind it. Blandford thrust his hands deeply into