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THE WINDOW
Though they left New York not long after three in the afternoon, twilight was fast ebbing into night when the motor-car—the owner driving, Whitaker
invalided to the lonely grandeur of the tonneau—swept up from a long waste of
semi-wooded countryside, sparsely populated, bumped over railroad tracks,
purred softly at sedate pace through the single street of a drowsy village, and then struck away from the main country road.
Once clear of the village bounds, as if assured of an unobstructed way, Ember gave the motor its head; with a long, keen whine of delight it took the bit between its teeth and flung away like a thoroughbred romping down the home-stretch. Its headlights clove a path through darkness, like a splendid sword; a pale shining ribbon of road seemed to run to th
