i

The night was very still and very fresh; but it was not freezing. A little wind hung and played in the trees, and sometimes swept along the ground; and it was dark because neither moon nor stars were visible. All the noises of the day were silenced. Only at times did a solitary taxicab create a burst of humming as it passed the end of a road, and the sound faded as suddenly as it had risen. Edgar, running from the house in his thin shoes, made hardly more than a light pattering upon the sidewalk. It was a night for adventure.

He could not yield to the quick speculations which darted to his brain; for the moment was one which demanded a clear head and rapidly applied thought. So many things might impede his progress: the car might be difficult to start, a tyre might be down, the thousand unexpected vagaries with which the motorist may at any moment be hindered were all present as possibilities to Edgar's mind. He was alert and anxious, bent upon meeting every emergency before it arose; and as he ran swiftly he was almost praying that there might on this occasion be no mishap.

The garage in which Edgar kept his car lay at some distance from his home. It had been a stable; but was so no longer. Two heavy, painted doors fastened with a padlock. They were opened very quickly, and pushed back against the outer wall of the garage. The light showed his faithful friend standing mutely in its place, as if waiting for his arrival—a grave little dark blue coupé with a long blue bonnet to match its body, and an interior of soft grey. Even in his haste, Edgar looked proudly upon the car. It was so beautiful, so speedy, so responsive to his touch; its line was so graceful, its lightness so apparent. Very fit instrument was this car for the deliverance of any maid in distress. There was no least incongruity between it and the romantic mission upon which Edgar believed himself to be engaged.

And yet he must not stay to think or feel. For him the detail of mechanical aids to swiftness was of urgent importance. As if in one movement, he switched on the lights, front and tail, manipulated three little knobs, ran quickly to the front of the car, and gave his engine a swing. His lips were tightly compressed; his expert ear was strained.... The engine was cold. What if there should be a difficulty in starting? Ghastly! Again he swung upon the handle, and at the resulting sound straightened with a breath of inexplicable relief. Within that little blur of fluttering noise lay reassurance. It was all right. Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick, said the engine, as happy and regular as if the car were coasting a hill. One, two, three; Edgar was in his place. The noise was increased. The car was in motion. He was out upon the dark road, speeding to Patricia through the deserted streets, now so fair and open to the questing traveller; the only sound audible to Edgar that beautiful eagerness which animated his own car. His eyes were steady and his hand easy upon the wheel. The lights of the main thoroughfares were clear, unearthly, and the way was free, as if inviting him to the race.

London at night he knew; but this journey gave Edgar a new vision of it. So quickly did he pass familiar objects that they swam together in his recording impression. It was London dignified and purified into ghostly loveliness by the night, but London so decreased in size that it became a village. All monuments and buildings of great size or antiquity were made insignificant; the broad roads of the west as he sped through them were so many paths. He had his goal, and could not attend the beauties he so silently and so eagerly left upon his way.

And at last, as he emerged to the appointed meeting-place, Edgar saw Patricia, a little disconsolate figure, waiting in the shadow of the railway-station façade. All there was darkness. The last trains had rumbled their way through the station, and it was as deserted as if it had been forgotten. Only Patricia's outline was to be discerned, but she was recognisable, and as he turned the car and ran alongside the kerb she came immediately forward. Both moved as in a dream. He had one glimpse of a white face within the radiance of the nearer lamp; and his nerves thrilled as he opened the door so that she could join him. It was an almost mute encounter, with midnight long past, in this silence and darkness, and there was unavoidable constraint upon both sides, so singular was the relation existing between them. Without a word, Patricia shut the door and drew back into the farther corner of the car, away from Edgar. To his inquiry she made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were closed, as if in complete exhaustion. Puzzled, Edgar touched her hand once; but there was no response, and after a single instant in which he tried to gain some knowledge from Patricia's expression he turned away once more and in silence they began their journey together.