By the time Lorelei had completed her recital of those occurrences that had excited her suspicions the car was rolling out the roads leading toward the Long Island plains, and, with head-lights ablaze, was defying all speed laws.  Other vehicles on their way home to the fashionable estates of Wheatley Hills, Hempstead, and the South Shore were overhauled and left behind.  The big machine had begun its long night-song, and it flashed over the rises or dipped into the swales with the gliding ease of movement characteristic of an aeroplane.  It went with almost the silence of a phantom—­only the sustained murmur of the motor, the whisper of the whirling tires as they parted from the road surface, the rush of the night wind pouring past, came to the ears of the passengers.  These softly rhythmic sounds, combined with the swaying of the deep cushions, were decidedly restful, and had there been nothing to challenge her sight Lorelei felt that she, too, might have been soothed as Merkle was.  But she was fascinated, hypnotized by the gleaming tunnel of light into which she was being hurled.  The blazing panorama of fence, forest, and hedge that took dim shape out of the blackness grew, rushed at her, then leaped away into oblivion, dazzled her too much for relaxation.  Merkle, however, had drawn the conversation-shield rearward, and in its shelter leaned back with eyes closed.  He seemed asleep, but after a time he spoke abruptly: 

“Melcher is a shrewd man.  He wouldn’t tackle a blackmailing job of this size without protection; otherwise I could put him out of the way very quickly.  I dare say Miss Lynn, herself, doesn’t know who is behind him.”

“Why don’t you warn Mr. Hammon at once?”

Merkle rolled his head loosely.  “You don’t know the man.  His self-reliance is so monumental, his scorn of opposition is so deep, that he would laugh at the idea of a plot against him.  Then, too, he’s mad about the woman, and he’d probably tell her everything I said.  After all, we have only our suspicions to go upon.”

Merkle dozed again, half buried in the cushions.  They had passed Jamaica; the country lay dark and silent on every side save for a dim-lit window here and there.  The car was eating the miles in a flight as swift and undeviating as that of an arrow; but it was not until it had swept into the Motor Parkway that the girl fully understood what her host termed fast driving.

Then it was that the chauffeur let the machine out.  Over the deserted plains it tore, comet-like, a meteor preceded by a streamer of light.  It swung to the banked curves with no slackening of momentum; it devoured the tangents hungrily; the night wind roared past, drowning all other sounds.  Crouched immovably in his seat, the driver scanned the causeway that leaped into view and vanished beneath the wheels, like a tremendous ribbon whirling upon spools.  Merkle lay back inertly, lolling and swaying to the side-thrust of the cushions; but Lorelei found her fists clenched and her muscles hard with the nervous strain.  Finally she pushed the shield forward, and, leaning over the front seat, stared at the tiny dash-light.  The finger of the speedometer oscillated gently over the figure sixty, and she dropped back with a gasp.  They had been running thus for a long time.