“Joy-riders,” he muttered.  “They wouldn’t give way, and threw me into those rails.”

“Narrow shave, that.  I wonder we weren’t all killed.”  Merkle eyed the car’s crumpled mud-guard and running-board, then directed his driver to ascertain the extent of the damage.  The motor was still throbbing, but a brief examination disclosed a broken steering-knuckle and a bent axle in addition to an injured wheel.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Knight; but I’ll have to send for another car,” apologized Merkle.

“Is this splendid machine ruined?”

He shrugged.  “That’s the curse of these roads.  Somebody is always driving recklessly.”  Lorelei smiled at memory of the miles they had covered so swiftly; but she saw that he was serious and in a sour temper.  “One risks his life on the whim of some drunken idiot the moment he enters a motor-car.  Now for a telephone.”  A terse question to his man served to fix their location.

“We’re not far from the Chateau,” Merkle interpreted the answer.  “That place is always open, so if you don’t mind the walk we’ll go ahead.  It will take an hour to get one of my other machines, but meanwhile we can have a bite to eat.”  At her cheerful acceptance his tone changed.

“You’re all right.  Some women would be hysterical after such a shake-up.  I swear, I think I feel it more than you.  If you were a man I’d like to have you for a chum.”

Together they set out through the starlight, leaving the chauffeur with instructions to secure help from the nearest garage; and as they followed the dim road Merkle continued to apologize until Lorelei silenced him.  Both were beginning to suffer from the reaction of their fright.

It was very late; there was little sign of habitation, for the road led through a wooded country.  Before long, however, they came in sight of lights, which Merkle hailed with relief.

The Chateau was a quasi-roadhouse of some architectural dignity, widely advertised as being under the same management as one of the smart Broadway cafes, and supplying the same food and drink, at twice the Broadway price.  Its service was unsurpassed by any city restaurant, and, being within an hour’s run by motor, it received a liberal patronage.  Tips were large at the Chateau; its hospitality was famous among those who could afford the extravagance of midnight entertainment; and yet it was a quiet place.  No echo of what occurred within its walls ever reached the outside world.  Sea-food, waffles, privacy, and discretion were its recognized specialties, and people came for miles—­mainly in pairs—­to enjoy them.

As the pedestrians neared the avenue of maples leading up to the house they espied in the road ahead of them first the dull red glow of a tail-light, then a dusty license plate.

“There’s luck,” Merkle ejaculated.  “I’ll rent this car.”

In the gloom several figures were standing, facing in the direction of the Chateau, and when Merkle spoke they wheeled as if startled.