H. Bedford-Jones

“ 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. ”

“ The initials on her suit-case, 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. ”

“ I said cheerfully as we came out ar;a:n to the car. "I haven't much faith in the speed-cop myth, so we'll let her out while the going's good. All set?"
"Yes. thank you," she responded, settling herself in the rear.
We started north, and the Paragon flitted along like a bat out of purgatory. She was a sweet boat for speed. When it got gloomy I threw on the headlights and the big spotlight which formed a part of her equipment, and we zoomed past the California landscape in the finest fashion imaginable. ”