B-r-r-r—!
The buzzer seemed attached to his nerves, racking them with its harsh vibrations.
"Driver, I want to get out here."
It was spoken in the same tone that the others had used. But each time it was repeated it became more hateful and uncanny.
He let the eighth man out.
"Good-night."
"What!" the driver exclaimed. The two words had startled him unbelievably.
The door had no sooner closed on the empty tonneau than the car was in motion again. Why had he stalled so when the man said "good night"? Passengers often did that. But spoken by the last of the eight, the words seemed to have a strange meaning.
"Eight from nine makes one," he reassured himself, slipping into the overdrive again. "But who is the one, and what is he up to?"
As if in answer, the man in the emergency seat took a deep breath, like a sigh, and turned from studying the darkness. It was a face that the driver had never seen before, smooth and pale, with dark, luminous eyes. The man folded his arms over his breast and spoke for the first time.
"How far is it to the Woodland Cemetery?"
Butler started violently and pressed the throttle.
"Five miles." Then he added, "We're having a nice ride, aren't we?"
The passenger laughed:
"Ha ha! You are driving fast, Mr. Butler."
He flinched at the weird sound of the laughter mingled with the rush of the car; and the mention of his name made him tremble. Because he felt that he must do or say something, he observed: "Well, better introduce yourself, since we are riding together."
"If you wish,” was the cool reply. "My name is Death."
"I didn't quite get it."
"Death!"
The bus driver put his feet on the pedals.
"This has gone far enough to suit me," he thought.
"Better not," the man beside him remarked. "Do you see anything under my elbow?"
In the dim light that was shed from the instrument board he made out the muzzle of an automatic pistol, protruding slightly from under folded arms.
"As you like," he agreed. "Where were we? Your name is Death, I believe. I suppose that is why you are going to the cemetery."
"Exactly, that is why we are going to the cemetery."
The driver felt a horrible chill coming over him.
"We? I didn't know I was invited."
"You were invited when I planned this ride."
"So you planned it, eh, with the others getting out along the road?"
"Exactly, so that we could go alone."
The passenger began tapping on the foot-boards with his feet, keeping time with the swaying car. Butler tightened his grip on the wheel, shivering and snarling like an animal in a cage.
"If you are Mister Death, then it's the cemetery for you. But you might tell me what's the idea of taking me along. By God!" he burst out; "if you carried a scythe, as you are supposed to, instead of that pistol, I would take a chance on seeing if we both went there!"
"Death has tricked people before," the passenger observed coolly. "And hadn't you better think a minute and
