The Ball of Fire by George Randolph Chester

Allison, springing forward with a jerk as he left Jim Sargent's house, headed his long, low runabout up the Avenue. He raced into the Park, and glanced up at the lookout house as he sped on past; but it was only a fleeting look. He needed no reminder of Gail, and he scarcely noticed that he was following the same road which they had so often taken together. His only impulse had been to drive somewhere at top speed, and he had automatically chosen this path. The night was damp and chill, but his evening top coat was open, revealing the white glint of his shirt front. He did not seem to mind. As he passed Roseleaf Inn, he slowed down. The roadhouse may have given him, and probably did, another reminder of Gail, in such a manner as to concrete him into logical thought; for he slowed down the terrific speed which had been the accompaniment of his unreasoning emotion. The driving required too much concentration for specific thought.

With this turning of his mental attitude, even the slow running of the car seemed to disturb him, and, about half a mile past Roseleaf Inn, he came slowly to a stop, sitting at the wheel, with his head bent slightly forward, and staring at the spot where the roadway had ceased to roll beneath his machine. Presently he became aware of the cold, and running his car to the side of the road, he stepped out, and, buttoning his coat around him, crossed a fence and walked through the narrow strip of trees to the river bank, where he stood for a moment looking out upon the misty Hudson, sparkling under the moonlight. He began to walk up and down the bank presently, the turf sinking spongily under his feet, and it was noticeable that his pace grew more and more rapid, until he was striding at a furious rate of speed.