open throttle drowned the whistle, for Henry did not pick up his end of
the tube. As the car started down the drive a man jumped to the
running-board, jerked open the car door, and without ceremony pushed
Spencer into a corner and seated himself between the latter and Kathleen.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miss Whitney," he apologized. "Sorry to
have been late."

Kathleen shrank back. She did not need the light from the lamp at the
entrance of the club grounds to tell her the intruder was Captain Miller.
She was too well acquainted with his voice. A voice she had hoped never
to hear again.

Spencer, considerably shaken by the force Miller had used in thrusting
him back against the side of the car, muttered a string of curses, which
ended abruptly as Miller's elbow came in sharp contact with his ribs.

Too bewildered for speech, Kathleen rested her head against the
upholstered back of the limousine. Neither of the men seemed inclined to
break the silence as the car sped swiftly toward Washington, and
gradually Kathleen's reasoning power returned to her. She was furiously
angry with herself, with the world, with Fate. Ah, she _would_ be
mistress of her own fate. Kathleen compressed her lips in mute
determination. Captain Miller must be made to understand that she would
not tolerate his further acquaintance. How dared he thrust his presence
upon her? Kathleen's hot anger cooled for a second; if Miller had not
thrust himself into the limousine she would in all probability have
either had to order Henry forcibly to eject Spencer, which might have
given rise to unpleasant gossip, or have endured alone the intoxicated
man's society for the five-mile drive into town.