As if it had been broad day Thwaite drove the car at a terrific pace
for nearly an hour. Then he stopped it while Rivvin put out every lamp.
We had not met or overtaken anything, but when we started again through
the moist, starless blackness it was too much for my nerves. Thwaite
was as cool as if he could see. I could not so much as guess at him in
front of me, but I could feel his self-confidence in every quiver of
the car. It was one of those super-expensive makes which are, on any
gear, at any speed, on any grade, as noiseless as a puma. Thwaite never
hesitated in the gloom; he kept straight or swerved, crept or darted,
whizzed or crawled for nearly an hour more. Then he turned sharp to
the left and uphill. I could feel and smell the soaked, hanging boughs
close above and about me, the wet foliage on them, and the deep sodden
earth mold that squelched under the tires. We climbed steeply, came to
a level and then backed and went forward a length or so a half dozen
times, turning. Then we stopped dead. Thwaite moved things that clicked
or thumped and presently said:
“Now I’ll demonstrate how a man can fill his gasoline tank in the pitch
dark if he knows the touch system.”
After some more time he said:
“Rivvin, go bury this.”
Rivvin swore, but went. Thwaite climbed in beside me. When Rivvin
returned he climbed in on the other side of me. He lit his pipe,
Thwaite lit a cigar and looked at his watch. After I had lit too,
Thwaite said:
“We’ve plenty of time to talk here and all you have to do is to listen.
I’ll begin at the beginning. When old Hiram Eversleigh died----”
“You don’t mean----” I interrupted him.
“Shut up!” he snapped, “and keep your mouth shut. You’ll have your say
when I’ve done.”