All the customers in the room, drinking and eating as many of them were, seemed to be under a dumb spell.

Tom o' the Gleam's presence was at all times more or less of a terror to the timorous, and that he, who as a rule avoided strangers, should on his own initiative enter into conversation with the two motorists, was of itself a circumstance that awakened considerable wonder and interest.
David Helmsley, sitting apart in the shadow, could not take his eyes off the gypsy's face and figure,--a kind of fascination impelled him to watch with strained attention the dark shape, moulded with such herculean symmetry, which seemed to command and subdue the very air that gave it force and sustenance.
"His lordship drives his car himself!" echoed Tom, and a curious smile parted his lips, showing an almost sinister gleam of white teeth between his full black moustache and beard,--then, bringing his sombre glance to bear slowly down on Wrotham's insignificant form, he continued,--"Are you his lordship ?" Wrotham nodded with a careless condescension, and, lighting a cigar, began to smoke it.
"And you drive your car yourself!" proceeded Tom,--"you must have good nerve and a keen eye!" "Oh well!" And Wrotham laughed airily--"Pretty much so!--but I won't boast!" "How many miles an hour ?" went on Tom, pursuing his inquiries with an almost morbid eagerness.
"Forty or fifty, I suppose--sometimes more.

I always run at the highest speed.

Of course that kind of thing knocks the motor to pieces rather soon, but one can always buy another." "True!" said Tom.

"Very true! One can always buy another!" He paused, and seemed to collect his thoughts with an effort,--then noticing the half-glass of brandy he had left on the counter, he took it up and drank it all off at a gulp.