see if there isn't a reason for your going there?"
"What the devil are you driving at? What have I done?"
"You should remember."
"Remember what?"
The driver's heart pounded so that he could hear it above the roar of the motor; and the car that raced over the road seemed to be standing still in the horrible darkness.
"So you don't remember?"
"No. What is it?"
"How far is it to the cemetery now?"
"About three miles. Why?"
"And still you don't remember?"
"No. Who the devil are you?"
"You have forgotten!" the passenger cried, his eyes shining like those of a cat. "God, I wish I could forget! And you don't even remember!"
"But what is it I don't remember?"
"Listen. When you were a bus driver here in 1918, did you once crowd a woman's car into a ditch?"
"What is that to you?"
"So you did?"
“Yes,” the driver admitted sullenly. "What is that to you?"
"What happened to the woman?"
"The car turned over and she died. But who—what was she to you?"
"Everything!"
The passenger stared with mad intentness. Then he continued:
"I would have died long ago if it hadn't been for her. I was blown up and shot to pieces. But I wouldn't die. Then, when I was ready to come home, I heard that you had killed her."
"But it wasn't my fault! I had to keep on schedule. That day—"
He turned his face away from the wild, unnatural light in the man's eyes. Before him there rose the scene that he had never let himself think of since the day it happened: the crowded bus tearing over the road to make up time, the gray roadster pushed to the edge of the ditch by the heavier vehicle, the gasp of the passengers, followed by a shriek that went up and up, as the small car turned over and crumpled, the bus sliding to a stop with smoking brakes, the white-faced passengers crowding round, the delicate, drooping face of the girl, and the blood—blood all over her white dress! The driver pressed the throttle as far down as it would go, trying to get away from the fearful picture.
"So you killed us both. It was too much to stand. They brought back what was left of me, and put me away. I waited my chance until tonight, when I came to find you."
Still the picture floated before his eyes, while the shrieking pierced him through. And this madman or ghost was making him remember every detail.
"How far is it to the cemetery now?"
"A mile," Butler said between chattering teeth.
"Good, we shall be in time!"
The bus lumbered swiftly down the hill, through the valley, and roared up the other slope, with the passenger beating time to its rhythm. As he neared the crest, the driver saw a faint light in the sky. Soon they would be on the open flat, in sight of the cemetery—
"Quick, how far is it now?"
"A quarter of a mile."
His staring eyes were ready to burst and the hair bristled on his head. The drooping face, the blood all over the white dress, and the shrieking, filled his eyes and ears.
"If I can only get past without stopping," he repeated to himself.
The black iron fence came in sight; the dim gravestones flitted by like ghosts. Just ahead, at the bend in the highway, the dark gateway of the cemetery rose against the sky. If he
