broke tonight.” Eden told of the voice over the radio. “Ever strike you that we may have been cuckoo from the start? No one even slightly damaged at the ranch, after all?”
“Quite possible,” the editor admitted.
“Well, that can wait. It’s Paula Wendell now.”
Another car was coming toward them with reckless speed. Holley swung out, and the two cars grazed in passing.
“Who was that?” wondered Eden.
“A taxi from the station,” Holley returned. “I recognized the driver. There was some one in the back seat.”
“I know,” said Eden. “Some one headed for Madden’s ranch, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Holley. He turned off the main road into the perilous, half-obliterated highway that led to the long-abandoned mine. “Have to go slower, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Oh, hit it up,” urged Eden. “You can’t hurt old Horace Greeley.” Holley again threw the throttle wide, and the front wheel on the left coming at that moment in violent contact with a rock, their heads nearly pierced the top of the car.
“It’s all wrong, Holley,” remarked Eden with feeling.
“What’s all wrong?”
“A pretty, charming girl like Paula Wendell running about alone in this desert country. Why in heaven’s name doesn’t somebody marry her and take her away.”
“Not a chance,” replied Holley. “She hasn’t any use for marriage.’The last resort of feeble minds’is what she calls it.”
“Is that so?”
