It was a long minute before he staggered to his feet and groped his way to the door, leaving his father standing before the fire and once more puffing absently at the long-stemmed pipe.  When old Barnabas had helped him into his coat and had given him his hat, he found Patricia still sitting in the car, with the motor purring softly under the hood.

“Must you go back?” she queried, when he had descended the steps to climb stiffly into the seat beside her.

He nodded.

“Your duty is clear?”

“Perfectly clear—­now.”

“And the consequences?” she asked.

“I can only guess,” he muttered.  “Ruin and disgrace for all of us, I suppose.  Of course, you understand that I have resigned from the railroad service and shall stand with my father when—­when the thing is done.”

She was backing the little roadster into the circling driveway to turn for the start.  At the reversing moment she made her final plea.

“Don’t do it, Evan—­don’t do it! I have no more than a woman’s reason to offer, but I am sure you are opening the door to a lifelong sorrow for yourself and—­and—­for me!”

It was the last two words that steeled him suddenly.  Not even at her beseeching would he turn aside from the plain path of the oath-bound obligation.  It struck him like a blow that the turning aside would make him forever unworthy of her.

“Take me back to the city as quickly as you can!” he said.  “Or, better still, stay here and let me have the car.  That is my last word.”

“You’re not fit to drive a car!” she snapped; and for further answer she threw the speed lever into the intermediate gear and released the clutch.  Like a projectile hurled from a catapult, the swift little roadster shot away down the cottonwood avenue, and with a jerk of the lever into the “high” the second race against time was begun.

For the first few miles Patricia’s passenger had all he could do to keep his seat.  On its upper mesa windings the Quaretaro road follows the course of the stream which has been robbed of its waters for the cultivated lands, and though the roadway was good the hazards were plentiful when taken at speed.  More than once Blount caught himself in the act of reaching for the steering-wheel, but as often he desisted.  As on the outward race, Patricia was staring straight ahead, and giving the little car every throb of speed there was in its machinery.  None the less, he could see that she had it under perfect control.

What finally happened came with the suddenness of the thunder-clap following a bolt which strikes near at hand.  They were on the down-grade approach to the mouth of Shonoho Canyon, and they could not see beyond the gentle curve to the left, where the smaller gulch found its intersection with the main ravine.  When they were within a hundred yards of the curve the stretch below came into view.  Blount had a momentary glimpse of some barrier—­a pine-tree, as it proved to be—­lying across the main road.  Seeing it, he realized at the same instant that Patricia was neither throttling the motor nor applying the brakes.  After that he had barely time to snap the switch and to throw the heavy wind-shield down before the devastating crash came.