"He would probably talk cars and engines every mile in the
most matter-of-fact way," Winifred Chester assured her. "No
woman yet has ever been able, as far as this town knows, to
strike a spark of romance out of Red Pepper Burns."

"Yet he has red hair," murmured the guest to herself, and
continued to look thoughtfully down the street along which the
Green Imp had shot out toward the open! country beyond.

Out in that open country, miles away, the car running with
that exquisite precision of rotating cylinder explosions which
is music to the trained ear of the mechanic at the wheel, the
two men sat silent. The pace of the Green Imp was one to cut
off speech, for the road wets straight and empty, stretching
like a white ribbon under the stars, with now and then a band
of midnight shade crossing it where arching tree-tops met the
course which invites an open throttle and the intent eye which
goes with it.

Suddenly the car struck aside from the straightaway and with
open cut-out roared up a steep hill by means of which a narrow
road led off toward a part of the country not often selected
by motorists for pleasure spins. Chester recognized that his
companion had a purpose beyond that of "trying out" his
engine, unless, indeed, the tough and rocky grade were a test.
But Burns was still silent, and the other man applied himself
to holding on. A mile up the road the car came to an abrupt
standstill before a tiny house.