Oliver was not rooming with them; he had his own quarters at the
club, which he did not wish to leave. But the next morning, about
twenty minutes after the hour he had named, he was at the door, and
Montague went down.

Oliver's car was an imported French racer. It had only two seats,
open in front, with a rumble behind for the mechanic. It was long
and low and rakish, a most wicked-looking object; whenever it
stopped on the street a crowd gathered to stare at it. Oliver was
clad in a black bearskin coat, covering his feet, and with cap and
gloves to match; he wore goggles, pushed up over his forehead. A
similar costume lay ready in his brother's seat.

The suits of clothing had come, and were borne in his grips by his
valet. "We can't carry them with us," said Oliver. "He'll have to
take them down by train." And while his brother was buttoning up the
coat, he gave the address; then Montague clambered in, and after a
quick glance over his shoulder, Oliver pressed a lever and threw
over the steering-wheel, and they whirled about and sped down the
street.

Sometimes, at home in Mississippi, one would meet automobiling
parties, generally to the damage of one's harness and temper. But
until the day before, when he had stepped off the ferry, Montague
had never ridden in a motor-car. Riding in this one was like
travelling in a dream--it slid along without a sound, or the
slightest trace of vibration; it shot forward, it darted to right or
to left, it slowed up, it stopped, as if of its own will--the driver
seemed to do nothing. Such things as car tracks had no effect upon
it at all, and serious defects in the pavement caused only the