Angela leaned back, hiding a smile behind her motor veil.  She did not believe that Mr. Sealman would have the offer.  His little car looked a badly made toy compared with that golden chariot.  She wondered if it had been sold, or if it would be worth while to make inquiries.  Somebody was perhaps trying it, she thought, for often it followed the road taken by Sealman; or, when their car broke down, as it usually did, the yellow giant shot ahead, disappeared and occasionally appeared again.

“I should like to find out if it’s still for sale,” she said to herself, gazing back admiringly.  “Why shouldn’t I have a motor of my own?”

As the Model trundled her out of sight, a man walked round the corner, and, springing into the yellow car, took the driver’s seat.

XI

THE MAN AT THE WHEEL

Nick had not been visiting the Mission that day.  But he had been there before, gabbling fluent Spanish with the verger.  This was more than Angela could do, though she knew the cathedrals of Spain!  In the morning Nick had made an early start with his new car, and, after four long days of constant practice, at last he experienced the joy of confidence in himself, at the wheel.  He was now licensed to drive, and the yellow automobile was his, body and soul.

The chauffeur, a reedy and extremely young youth, with a sharp nose and a keen sense of humour, had scraped acquaintance with Sealman.  Without giving away any information on his side, he had always contrived to find out, if not where the Model was going, at least where it was hoped she might go.  It was to be Riverside to-day; and after a preliminary spin from six to eight, Nick had been lingering near the Mission, paying a friendly visit to the owner of the Big Grapevine and the Trained Owls.  This man was the most taciturn of mortals.  But something behind the locked windows of his soul recognized a congenial spirit in the open windows of Nick Hilliard’s, and the two had made friends years ago.  The morning’s call was a renewal of old acquaintance; and the sea-green light under the Grapevine was as clear as on another May day, when Nick was six years younger.  The alligators were larger; but the white-faced owls were unchanged—­unless perhaps a little wiser, a little more instructed in the oldest secrets of an old, secretive world.

“See the way that white-veiled witch stares at me with her golden eyes?” said Nick.  “Wish I could flatter myself she remembers me.”

“Of course she remembers,” said her master, “She’s the same one told your fortune when you were here before.”

“I asked her if I was going to amount to anything in the world, and she nodded her head three times.  I felt like sending her a present when Gaylor made me foreman, and again when I got my ranch.  She ought to have had a diamond crown when the gusher came.  But, like an ungrateful beast, I forgot all about her.”