She walked close to Gatsby， touching his coat withher hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the frontseat of Gatsby’s car， Tom pushed the unfamiliargears tentatively and we shot off into the oppressiveheat leaving them out of sight behind.
“Did you see that？” demanded Tom.
“See what？”
He looked at me keenly， realizing that Jordan andI must have known all along.
“You think I’m pretty dumb， don’t you？” hesuggested. “Perhaps I am， but I have a—almost second sight， sometimes， that tells me what to do.
Maybe you don’t believe that， but science—”
He paused. The immediate contingency overtookhim， pulled him back from the edge of thetheoretical abyss.
“I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow，” hecontinued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known—”
“Do you mean you’ve been to a medium？” inquiredJordan humorously.
“What？” Confused， he stared at us as we laughed.
“A medium？”
“About Gatsby.”
“About Gatsby！ No， I haven’t. I said I’d beenmaking a small investigation of his past.”
“And you found he was an Oxford man，” saidJordan helpfully.
“An Oxford man！” He was incredulous. “Like hellhe 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 youinvite him to lunch？” demanded Jordan crossly.
“Daisy invited him； she knew him before we weremarried—God knows where！”
We were all irritable now with the fading ale and，aware of it， we drove for a while in silence. Then asDoctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sightdown the road， I remembered Gatsby’s cautionabout 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 slidto an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After amoment the proprietor emerged from the interior ofhis establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.
“Let’s have some gas！” cried Tom roughly. “Whatdo you think we stopped for—to admire the view？”
“I’m sick，” said Wilson without moving. “I beensick all day.”
“What’s the matter？”
“I’m all run down.”
“Well， shall I help myself？” Tom demanded. “Yousounded well enough on the phone.”
With an effort Wilson left the shade and supportof the doorway and， breathing hard， unscrewed thecap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch，” he said.
“But I need money pretty bad and I was wonderingwhat you were going to do with your old car.”
“How do you like this one？” inquired Tom. “bought it last week.”
“It’s a nice yellow one，” said Wilson， as he strainedat the handle.
“Like to buy it？”
“Big chance，” Wilson smiled faintly. “No， but could make some money on the other.”
“What do you want money for， all of a sudden？”
“I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. Mywife and I want to go west.”
“Your wife does！” exclaimed Tom， startled.
“She’s been talking about it for ten years.” Herested for a moment against the pump， shading hiseyes. “And now she’s going whether she wants to ornot. I’m going to get her away.”
The coupé flashed by us with a flurry of dust andthe flash of a waving hand.
“What do I owe you？” demanded Tom harshly.
“I just got wised up to something funny the lasttwo days，” remarked Wilson. “That’s why I want toget away. That’s why I been bothering you about thecar.”
“What do I owe you？”
“Dollar twenty.”
The relentless beating heat was beginning toconfuse me and I had a bad moment there beforeI realized that so far his suspicions hadn’t alightedon Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had somesort of life apart from him in another world andthe shock had made him physically sick. I staredat him and then at Tom， who had made a paralleldiscovery less than an hour before—and it occurredto me that there was no difference between men， inintelligence or race， so profound as the differencebetween the sick and the well. Wilson was so sickthat he looked guilty， unforgivably guilty—as if hehad just got some poor girl with child.
“I’ll let you have that car，” said Tom. “I’ll send itover tomorrow afternoon.”
That locality was always vaguely disquieting， evenin the broad glare of afternoon， and now I turnedmy head as though I had been warned of somethingbehind. Over the ashheaps the giant eyes of DoctorT. J. Eckleburg kept their vigil but I perceived， aftera moment， that other eyes were regarding us withpeculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away.
In one of the windows over the garage thecurtains had been moved aside a little and MyrtleWilson was peering down at the car. So engrossedwas she that she had no consciousness of beingobserved and one emotion after another creptinto her face like objects into a slowly developingpicture. Her expression was curiously familiar—was an expression I had often seen on women’s facesbut on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposelessand inexplicable until I realized that her eyes， widewith jealous terror， were fixed not on Tom， but onJordan Baker， whom she took to be his wife.
There is no confusion like the confusion of simple mind， and as we drove away Tom was feelingthe hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress，until an hour ago secure and inviolate， were slippingprecipitately from his control. Instinct made himstep on the accelerator with the double purpose ofovertaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind， andwe sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour，until， among the spidery girders of the elevated， wecame in sight of the easy going blue coupé.
“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street arecool，” suggested Jordan. “I love New York onsummer afternoons when every one’s away. There’ssomething very sensuous about it—overripe， as all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into yourhands.”
The word “sensuous” had the effect of furtherdisquieting Tom but before he could invent a protestthe coupé came to a stop and Daisy signalled us todraw up alongside.
“Where are we going？” she cried.