ords, passed over Gatsby’s face.  “Come on, Daisy” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”  He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.  “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.”  She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind.  “Did you see that?” demanded Tom.  “See what?”  He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along.  “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—”  He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of theoretical abyss.  “I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known—”  “Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously.  “What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?”  “About Gatsby.”  “About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.”  “And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully.  “An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.”  “Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.”  “Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like that.”  “Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly.  “Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!”  We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution about gasoline.  “We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom.  “But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to get stalled in this baking heat.”  Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.  “Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we stopped for—to admire the view?”  “I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.”  “What’s the matter?”  “I’m all run down.”  “Well, shal