"I believe you," grunted Steve, once more seated beside her, the engine
drumming, the wheels spinning. "You don't know what a speed law is, do
you?"
"Speed law?" she repeated absently, her eyes on the next dark turn in
the road. "What's that?"
He chuckled and settled back in his seat. His eyes, like the girl's,
were watchfully bent upon the gloom-filled angle which Terry must
negotiate before the way straightened out again before her. Her
headlights cut through the shadows; Terry's little body stiffened a bit
and her hands tensed on her wheel; her flying speed was lessened an
almost negligible trifle; she made the turn and opened the throttle.
Steve nodded approvingly.
For the greater part they were silent. He had never seen her in a mood
like to-night's. He read in her face, in her eyes, in the carriage of
her body, one and the same thing; and that was a complex something made
of the several emotions of determination, sorrow, and fiery anger.
He read her thought readily; it was clear that she made no attempt to
conceal it: She was going to consummate a certain deal, she was grieved
and ashamed for her father, she remembered the "look on Blenham's face
to-night," and again and again her fury shot its red tide into her
cheeks.
"Blenham put his dirty hands on her," was Steve's thought; "or tried
to."
And he found that his own pulses drummed the hotter as he let his
imagination conjure up a picture for him, Blenham's big, knotted hands
upon the daintiness that was Terry.
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