H. Bedford-Jones

“ I rang off and left the place, stuffing the newspaper into my pocket. One thing was certain: the reporter had got the wrong steer from Balliol's friends! Balliol had not killed himself because of poverty—not in the least. Why, he had told me that he had furnished his ranch-house with all electric appliances and the best furniture he could get in San Francisco! No; his grim struggle had been one fine little myth. But it had satisfied the press, and had evidently been meant to satisfy the press—why? To keep the real truth concealed, of course. His friends were shielding him. ”

“ 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. ”

“ The worst road I ever took, or ever hope to take, befell me then and there. It was a détour, and there were miles of it, alongside the newly constructed but unfinished boulevard. Then I swung into a bit of presumably finished road, with unfinished culverts at the bottom of each hill; the first one nearly took my head off when we struck. Then more miles, and long miles, of plain road—about as bad as the détour ”