to the point where a lady should enter it.  He was at that point to leave, without words.  It had been impressed on McGuire that utter silence was imperative.  The chauffeur was then to follow in the runabout, acting as a reserve in the event of need.  Both cars were to take a certain circuitous route to a point on the shore thirty miles distant, the runabout keeping just close enough to hold the first car in sight.  McGuire had listened and understood.  Yet now McGuire was missing, together with one very necessary motor-car.

As Benton stood, boiling with wrath at the miscarriage of his plans, he fancied he heard the soft muffled song of his motor just beyond the turn where the road circled the house.  He bent and held a lighted match close to the gravel.  On a muddied spot he found the easily recognizable tread of his tires.  The car had been there.  For the sake of speed he ran to the garage near by and took a swift look at the runabout.  It was waiting, and, thanks to the God of Machines, would start on compression.  He flung himself to the driver’s seat and gave it the spark.  Far away—­about as far as the bridge, he calculated—­he heard one short, cautious blast of an automobile horn.

Just before the last turn brought him to the bridge, where he should meet Cara, he noticed a man hurrying toward him, on foot, and recognized McGuire.  Totally mystified, he slowed down the machine.

“Get in, you infernal blockhead,” he called.  “Tell me about it as we go.  I’m in a hurry.”

But McGuire performed strangely.  He clapped one hand to his forehead and looked at his employer out of large, wild eyes.  “Am I dippy?  My God!  Am I dippy?” he exclaimed, repeating the question over and over in a low, trembling voice.

“Apparently you are.  Get in, damn you!” Benton ordered.

“It’s weird,” declared McGuire.  “It’s damned weird.”

“Why, sir,” he ran on, talking fast, now that the first shock was over and his tongue again loosened.  “Either I’ve made a fool mistake, or else I’m crazier than hell.  I waited at the place you said.  You—­or your ghost—­came and took his seat, and waved his hand.  I started the car for the bridge.  He didn’t say a word.  At the bridge I jumped out.  He was you—­and yet you are here—­same size—­same costume—­same beard—­even the same beads around the neck.”

They had almost reached the bridge and were slowing down when Benton, scanning the road, empty in the moonlight, grasped for the first time a definite suspicion of what had happened.

“Cara!” he shouted.  “Good God, where is she?”

The chauffeur leaned over and shouted into his ear.  “I’m telling you, sir.  The lady’s in that other car—­with that other edition of you.  And, sir—­beggin’ your pardon—­they’re beatin’ it like hell!”

Benton’s only answer was to feed gas to the spark so frantically that the car seemed to rise from the ground and shiver before it settled again.  Then it shot forward and reeled crazily into a speed never intended for a curving road at night.