The Perils of Pauline Part 39

replied Farrell cheerfully.

At the next town he telephoned to the Marvin office in New York. He came out of the booth with a worried look.

"The boss has left in a taxi for home," he said. "Wonder what that means. Guess we better sort of travel along towards Westbury. He might need me."

They changed their course and had driven for some time at an easy rate through the smiling country when the sound of a machine coming up speedily behind caused Farrell to look around. The pa.s.senger in the open cab waved his hand and Farrell, saluting, slowed down. The cars stopped, side by side. Harry raised his hat to the young woman.

"You're not going home, are you, Farrell?" he said.

"I heard you'd left the office and I thought something might have happened, and I'd be near enough so you could get me quick."

"Nothing has happened. I'll get along nicely with this cab. You'd better keep a good distance and not come home until tomorrow morning."

"Very well, sir. That suits us fine." Farrell grinned.

The taxi started on and Farrell turned off at the next crossroad.

"He's a great boss, but a queer one," he said to his wife. "It's a queer family all around. I wonder what's being cooked up now."

As the time of Farrell's expected return drew near Pauline's despair and anger increased with every moment. When four o'clock struck she arose and walked nervously out to the garage to ask if any word had been received from Farrell. She found Owen there.

As she turned toward him, after her futile questioning, Pauline's grief suddenly mounted to anger.

"It is after four, and Farrell has not returned," she exclaimed.

She had come out to the yard in the exquisite white gown that she was to wear to the wedding, a flas.h.i.+ng jewel at her white throat, her hair done regally high. Now, in her anger, she was a picture of fury made beautiful.

Her outburst was interrupted by a messenger boy with a telegram. She opened the message with nervous fingers.

"Blow out. Can't get back this evening," she read.

She tore the message into pieces, dropped them and, stamped upon them with her white slippers.

"It's true, it's true!" she cried, turning desperately to Owen.

"I am terribly, hopelessly sorry--but I knew that it was true," he said solemnly.

At this moment along the drive came the new gardener wheeling a barrow of fresh mold, his rake and hoe lying across it. "Palmer!" Pauline cried.

The man let fall the barrow as if he had been cut with a whip lash. He looked up and for an instant his dazed eyes seemed to brighten. Then he picked up the barrow as if no one had spoken and went on.

Pauline followed him.

"Bring out the roadster," she called over her shoulder, and, as she stopped beside the gardener. The garage men, bewildered, but used to the kindly vagaries of their pretty employer, sent the machine down driveway.

"Can you drive an automobile, Palmer?" asked Pauline.

This time the man's eyes did not brighten. He looked at her respectfully, but dully. She drew him to the car and repeated the question. He only grinned foolishly and kept on shaking his head.

"Wait," she said, and, running back to the house, reappeared directly wearing her hat and flowing white wrap. "Come, Palmer, you must drive me to the wedding," she declared.

She made him get into the car and take the wheel. As she got in beside him, his hands fumbled aimlessly with the lever.

"Palmer! Palmer!" she dinned his forgotten name into his ears. "Don't you remember the race, the road, the flying cars, the speed, the speed! Don't you remember the man who was in the lead--the man the crowd cheered for? That was you, Palmer, the greatest of all the drivers."

She leaned forward in the seat, arms outstretched as if holding a tugging wheel, eyes set straight ahead, slippered feet threading imaginary levers, graceful body swerving.

He watched her, frowning. A vague purpose seemed to animate the hand groping with the levers.

"Wake up, Palmer! It's time for the race--the Vanderbilt Cup. Kirby and Michaels have started. There's Wharton coming to the line. Don't you see the crowds? Can't you hear them cheering? Palmer! Palmer! *

* * Yes, we're coming! * * * Palmer is coming back. * * * Way there!"

He found the self-starter; the engine sounded. He found the clutch and gears. His eyes were shut. The car started slowly and he opened his eyes. Pauline sank back in the seat, laughing and clapping her hands, half hysterically.

"Bravo, Palmer!" she exulted.

The astonished workmen saw them glide through the outer gate. Raymond Owen from his window saw them and rubbed his hands pleasantly. Fate indeed seemed to be favoring his deadly work today!

The car swung into the highway.

"Drive faster," commanded Pauline.

The listless hands hardened on the wheel. She saw him bend over and fix his vision on the road. She thrilled at the miracle she had wrought.

More speed, and the wind blew her cape from her shoulders; the dust beat in her face. She merely tightened her veil and sat silent.

"Take the first turn to the right," she called in his ear as they neared the crossroad. He did not slacken the speed.

"It's a sharp turn; slow a little," she cautioned. He did not seem to hear her.

She placed her hand sharply on his arm. He drove past the crossroad, the speed to the last notch.

Pauline tried to stand up in the seat and seize the wheel. He thrust her back with one hand, not even looking at her. He was leaning far over the wheel now, his eyes blazing. She could see the beat of blood in his temple.

"Stop! Stop! You are on the wrong road. You will kill us both!" she screamed in his deaf ears. She tried again to wrest the wheel from him, but this time he held her fast after he had flung her back. She had raised up a Frankenstein for her own destruction. She was being driven by a madman.

As they took the curve outside Westbury village another car filled with men and women fairly grazed them. The women screamed and the men shouted wildly after them. But they flashed on.

Down the hill at Gangley's Mills the pace grew even greater. From the west p.r.o.ng of the road fork at the bottom a taxicab shot into view.

There was a shout of warning, a rattle and creak as the taxi swerved, safe by inches.

On the skirts of Clayville a group of farmers and a constable were arguing a roadside dispute. Pauline could see dim figures leap into the road waving arms; she could hear them shouting. The figures jumped to either side as Palmer drove through the group.

They sprang back into the road, cursing and shaking their fists, only to be routed anew by the rush of the taxicab following.

The roadster straightened out on the ledge of Scrogg Hill. In spite of the curve and the precipice Palmer held his speed. His daring, his utter mastery, stirred a kind of admiration in Pauline and the death she saw looming stirred anew her courage. She wrenched her arm free from his grip. She stood up and swung her weight against the man, rasping for the wheel. The car swerved toward the cliff, but he jerked it back, striking at her brutally with his free hand. She fell in the seat, but returned, desperate, to the encounter. She caught the wheel. She tried to command it, but his strength drew the other way.

The machine shot toward the abyss. There was a crackle as the wooden guide fence splintered under the wheels. There was a cras.h.!.+

Harry, leaning from the taxicab behind, uttered a groan. The roadster had gone over the cliff.