“It’s a nice lay-out,” he mused, reading the type-written lines over again, “but the little lady was too fly for you this time, Evan, my boy.  She was just prophetess enough to guess where and how you would go off the handle, clever enough to pass me the word to watch the wires after a certain train should get in from Ophir to-day.  Great little woman, that.  I believe she figures out more than half of the fine moves in the Honorable Senator’s game, though this particularly fine move of sending Hathaway to touch a match to Evan’s little powder-keg is one that I don’t begin to understand.”  And he folded the telegram and carefully put it away in his pocket-book.

Evan Blount walked three squares beyond the Inter-Mountain Hotel before he had cooled down sufficiently to determine what to do next.  As it chanced, the cooling-down process had led him to the door of the public garage patronized by his father.  That thought of flying to Patricia for counsel and comfort was still with him, but it was over-shadowed by a more militant desire to fight somebody; to go to his father and tell him how completely and successfully he had plotted with the vice-president to humiliate a son whose only offence was a decent regard for honor and uprightness.

Acting upon the impulse of the moment, he went in and asked if any of Senator Blount’s cars were in the city.  There was one—­the big roadster; and Blount’s decision was taken instantly.  On that first day at Wartrace Hall his father had tried to give him one of the three motor-cars outright, and when he had refused to take it as a gift, a compromise had been made by which he was under promise to use any one of the machines he could get hold of when the need arose.  Accordingly, a few minutes later he was behind the steering-wheel of the fast roadster, picking his way through the traffic-burdened city streets and pointing straight for the country road leading north to the sage-brush hills.

Now, among its many attractions, motoring numbers—­from the driver’s point of view—­this:  that it effectually sweeps the brain of all other cares and distractions, sundry and several, since one may not drive a high-powered car at speed and successfully think of anything but the driving.  Blount reached the entrance to the cottonwood-shaded avenue at Wartrace Hall just before the dinner hour; and he was so far recovered from the attack of righteous indignation that he was able to meet his father and the others with a fair degree of equanimity.  In the back part of his mind, however, he held the fighting ultimatum in suspense.  In the course of the evening he would make his opportunity and have it out, once for all, with the master plotter.  So much he determined while he was dressing for dinner.  But the course of events is sometimes a most unmalleable thing, as he was presently to learn.

At the dinner-table it was the professor who monopolized the conversation, holding forth learnedly and dictatorially upon matters pertaining solely to the Pliocene age, and never once suffering the talk to approach nearer than several million years to the twentieth century.  And at the dispersal—­only there was no dispersal—­the senator took his turn, leading the way to the great wainscoted living-room and persuading Patricia to go to the piano.