The little lady’s eyes were demurely downcast.  “I shouldn’t dare tell you that, but—­but perhaps I might show you.  I didn’t promise not to—­not to follow him,” she returned with exactly the proper shade of half-frightened reluctance.

“Is it far?” he asked.

“Y-yes; we should have to drive.”

“Excuse me for a minute or two,” he said abruptly, and, making a bolt for the elevator, he was back almost within the limit named with a top-coat for himself and a driving-wrap for his companion.  “I broke into your suite and made Patricia give me the wrap,” he explained.  “If it isn’t what you want, I’ll try again.”

“It will do nicely,” she told him; and together they went down the broad marble stair to the ground-floor.

“Do we take a cab?” he asked, when they reached the sidewalk.

“No; it’s only a short walk to the garage, and we can take the touring-car.”

“I’m entirely in your hands,” he rejoined; and then:  “Perhaps you’d better take my arm.  We can make quicker time that way.”

The small plotter’s eyes were dancing when she slipped her hand under his arm.  In a career which had not been entirely devoid of excitement, Mrs. Honoria had rarely found men difficult.  But this particular young man was proving himself to be the easiest among many.

At the garage Blount asked for the family touring-car, more than half-expecting to be told that his father had taken it.  The garage man nodded and laughed.  “You can have it, but you came within an ace of losing out,” he said.  “The senator was just here, and he was going to take it, but he changed his mind when I told him the big roadster was in.”

Blount made no comment, and when the car was ready he asked his companion where she would ride.

“In front, with you,” was the quick reply; and when they were placed she gave him his running orders.  “Slip out of the city by the quietest streets you can find and take the Quaretaro road,” she directed, and he obeyed in silence, holding the speed down until they had left the capital behind them and were bowling along under the stars on the fine boulevarded county road.

“Do we take it easy or the other way?” he asked, speaking for the first time since they had left the town garage.

“You may drive as fast as you like until we come to the hills,” he was told; and with this permission Blount let the motor out and speedily put the fifteen miles of the straightaway road to the rear.

“Is it Wartrace?” he inquired, when the touring-car was breasting the first of the grades in the gulch-threading climb to the second mesa level.

“No.  When you come to the pine-tree, turn to the right up Shonoho Canyon.”

“We can’t get anywhere on that road,” he objected.  “It’s washed out and posted.  I tried to go up there the other day when I had Patricia out in the little car.”

“I think you will find it quite passable to-night,” was all the answer he got; and a little later, when they had turned out of the main road and were ascending the small canyon, the prophecy came true.  The brush barricade had been thrown aside, and there were fresh wheel tracks in the sand.