The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones

she cried out; and I observed that he had very blue eyes, and remarkably pretty eyes. “Drive this car back instantly!”

      “Back—where?” I inquired. “Back—”

      “Have you stolen this car?” she flung at me as if she really thought I had.

      “No,” I said, and laughed. “No, madam. This car is protected from theft by reason of its color. No thief would attack it! The car belongs to me, it really does,” I went on, for her appearance of fright sobered me. “If you doubt it, look at the prescribed card here by the dash, which was legally affixed before I left Los Angeles. It bears my name and the car’s number—”

      “Do you dare pretend that you are John Balliol?” she flashed out scornfully.

      “Heaven forbid!” I said gravely. “Balliol’s dead. I bought the car, madam, day before yesterday. Only an hour ago I saw in the paper an account of his death—”

      I curse the impulsive words. For she stared at me, her eyes slowly widening in horror, the color ebbing out of her face; then she collapsed in a dead faint.

      CHAPTER III

      I Receive A Warning

      I had never had a fainting lady on my hands before, except once when Mrs. Wanderhoof, of Peoria, saw the Fifth Avenue apartment I had decorated for her, and looked at the bill. In that instance, Mr. Wanderhoof had assumed charge. But in this instance—

      We were out of sight of Paso Robles, and there was not a soul nor a house in view. There was no water to throw on the girl’s face—she was no more than a girl, I judged—and the radiator water was apt to be dirty. So, not knowing what else to do, I swung over into the rear seat beside her and set her slim, drooping body upright against the cushions. As I did so, I was relieved to see her blue eyes flutter open.

      Then I remembered a flask of whisky in the door-pocket, and produced it. I got the screw-cup to her lips, but at the first taste she pushed it away.

      “Thank you,” she said in a low voice. “I—I am very well now.”

      She seemed unable to take her eyes from me; the color slowly crept back into her cheeks, but in her eyes I read a bewildered fear.

      Then she said something strange:

      “You said—they killed Jack after all!”

      I was puzzled. Jack! Oh, she must mean John Balliol. The poor girl—I must have given her a stiff jolt!

      “No,” I said gently. “No one killed Balliol, madam. I have the paper here with an account of it; it was suicide. May I ask if you are a friend of his?”

      She seemed to shudder slightly, and drew a long breath.

      “Yes. I am a—a friend,” she said in a low voice, and flushed. I had the uneasy conviction that she was lying to me. “Your words were—a shock. I saw him only last night, before my train left—or, rather, yesterday afternoon.

      “When this car passed the train this morning I felt that it was he; I knew we were ahead at Paso Robles, so I left the train and waited—and I saw the car and got in. When you came along, I thought it was Jack—and meant to surprise him—and when you spoke I discovered—”

      She broke off, the words failing her. That told me the whole story, of course. Even from the train she had not been able to mistake this accursed car!

      “But it was only six last night when I saw him! And my train did not leave until nearly midnight—there’s been a wreck somewhere, and the trains were all held up. It never occurred to me that he was not in the car—”

      She broke off again, starting at me.

      “My name is Yorke Desmond,” I said, trying to make matters smooth. To my dismay, I saw her eyes widen again with that same startled expression. I could have sworn that she had heard my name before.

      “I met Mr. Balliol two days since, on business. I bought a ranch from him, in fact, and bought this car to boot. I’m on my way up to the ranch now. If, as I presume, you were en route to San Francisco, I shall be very glad to place the car at your disposal.”

      She looked away from me, looked at the horizon with a fixed, despairing gaze. My dismay became acute when I perceived that she was going to cry. And she did.

      “Oh!” She flung up her hands to her face suddenly. “Oh—and to think that it took place last night—right afterward! And now it’s too late—”

      A spasm of sobbing shook her body. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling that I had been a blundering ass, I went for a walk and let her cry it out. All my married friends tell me that crying it out is the only solution.

      As I paced down the roadside, I found myself extremely puzzled, even suspicious. She had admitted to me that she had seen Balliol the previous evening. But first, when she had not been on guard at all, she had cried out: “They killed Jack after all!” Upon hearing that Balliol was dead, she had immediately taken for granted that “they” had killed him! Things looked rather badly.

      The initials on her suitcase, which I had seen, were M. J. B. Was she a Balliol? No; she had said that she was a friend, and had distinctly said “friend,” not “relative.” And she had been lying about it, somehow; a minute later she had lied when she told of seeing Balliol the previous night. For her train had not been late! It had left Los Angeles a little before midnight, on regular schedule. “Regular as clockwork,” had said the garage man as the train had passed us. I remembered that incident now.

      This girl must have known Balliol pretty well. She had seen him last night, and he had gone from her to his suicide. And, by Heaven, she knew it! She was lying!

      Well, this conclusion gave me quite a jolt, to be frank. That girl did not look like an ordinary liar, and she did not lie with practiced ease. Why should she deliberately set out to deceive me? I could not see any light whatever. And the mysterious “they” whom she took to be Balliol’s murderers!

      The whole affair was strictly none of my business. As I walked back to the car, I took out my pipe and filled it. This girl was in trouble, and my best course was to mind my own affair and ask no questions.

      When I had regained the car, I found that the girl had composed herself and was now staring at the horizon again—a poor, crumpled bit of exquisite femininity. I removed my cap and addressed her.

      “Madam, it seems that there has been a mistake somewhere. Please consider me at your service in any way possible! If you want to get to Frisco, we can reach there tonight, I believe.”

      Her gaze came to me for a moment, and she drew a deep breath.

      “Thank you, Mr. Desmond,” she said quietly. But she did not give me her name. “Jack told me of selling his ranch to you, but did not mention the car. That was how my mistake came to be made.”

      Her lips quivered, and she looked down. Then she forced herself into calm again.

      “If—if it would not be asking too much, will you take me on to San Francisco with you?” she pursued. “I’m very sorry indeed to have made this terrible blunder.”

      “It will be entirely my pleasure, madam,” I returned rather pointedly. But she did not take the hint, and obviously intended to keep her identity to herself. So I got into the car, and, as I did so, removed the paper from my pocket.

      “Here is the newspaper in question,” I added, handing it to her.

      She took it in silence and leaned back again.

      I started the car, and we went on.

      For the remainder of the afternoon the two of us exchanged scarcely a word. Once or twice I attempted to divert her thoughts by comments upon the road or the country, but she discouraged my efforts quite visibly. I was too occupied with the road, which again alternated good with bad, to let my mind dwell upon the mystery of the girl.

      We made time, however. I took