Friend Jim had appeared with warmer garments, carrying a lantern.  At the door of the stable Jim’s stentorian yell to the groom seemed useless, but the two men entered.  Helene felt miserably weak and deserted, in the chill night, but she was cheered by seeing the energetic Shirley reappear, pushing open the doors of the garage, which was connected with the stable.  He hurried to the deserted taxicab, where he seemed busied for several minutes, the glow of his pocket lamp shooting out now and then.  Through the door of the garage a long, rakish-looking racing car was being pushed out by Jim and his sleepy groom.  There was a cheery shout from the taxi, and Helene heard a ripping sound.  Shirley reappeared, carrying an oblong box.

“I have the gas generator:—­it was built in, under the seat, and controlled by a battery wire from the front lamp, Jim.  A nice little mechanism.  Well, old pal, please apologize to Mrs. Merrivale for my rude interruption of her beauty sleep.  Keep a fatherly eye on Gentleman Mike, and the taxicab under cover.  I’ll communicate with you very soon.  So long.”

To Helene’s amazement, Shirley cranked the racer, jumped in and seemed to be starting away without her, down the sweep of the driveway.  Could he have forgotten her?  The man must indeed be mad, as some of his actions indicated!  But her aroused indignation was turned to admiration of his finesse, for suddenly he veered the lights of the car toward the garage door, throwing them in the faces of Jim and his servant.  He leaped out again, walking past the place of concealment.

“Slip into the car, while I go inside with them.  I’ll come out on the run, and no one will be the wiser.”

With this passing stage direction he rushed toward his accomodating friend, with some final directions.  They were apparently humorous in content, for both the other men roared with mirth, as he walked inside the building, with them, an arm around the shoulder of each.  Helene obeyed him, hiding as best she could in the low seat of the throbbing machine.  As Shirley returned, Jim Merrivale was still laughing blithely.

“Good-bye, you old maniac:  you’ll be the death of me.  I’ll take care of the star boarder, however, and feed him champagne and mushrooms.”

With a roar, Shirley started the engines, as he bounced into the seat, and they sped down the curving driveway, with Helene leaning forward, unobserved.

“There, we’ve had a little by-play that friend Jim didn’t guess.  I always enjoy a little intrigue,” he laughed, as they whizzed along toward distant New York.  “But, I had to lie, and lie, and lie—­like the light that lies in women’s eyes.  What a jolly game!”

He was a big boy, happy in the excitement, and bubbling with his superabundance of vitality.  Helene felt curiously drawn toward him, in this mood:  she remembered a little paragraph she had read in a book that day: