BELL WONDERED WHETHER the machine-gun raid at Fort Riley could have been an elaborate feint by Harry Frost, a distraction to lull Josephine’s protectors into loosening the cordon they kept around her each night at the fairgrounds and rail yards. With that possibility in mind, Bell laid an ambush. He waited for dark—after sad good-byes with the Eddison-Sydney-Martins, whose support train steamed out of the tiny Morris County Fairgrounds rail yard back to Chicago—and climbed onto the roof of Josephine’s private car. For hours, he lay in wait, scanning the trains parked on the other side of Whiteway’s special and listening for the crunch of boots on gravel ballast.

It was a hot night. Windows, skylights, and roof hatches were open. Murmured conversations and occasional bursts of laughter mingled with a quiet sighing of locomotives bedded down with banked fires producing just enough steam to power lights and warm water.

Around midnight, he heard someone knock at Josephine’s rear vestibule. Whoever it was, he must have come through the train, as Bell had seen or heard no one on the ballast. Nonetheless, Bell drew his Browning and aimed it through an open roof hatch at the door. He heard Josephine call sleepily from her stateroom, “Who is it?”

“Preston.”

“Mr. Whiteway, it’s kind of late.”

“I must speak with you, Josephine.”

Josephine padded into the front parlor, wearing a simple dressing gown over cotton pajamas, and opened the door.

Whiteway was dressed in a suit with a silk necktie, and his hair was combed in grand golden waves. “I want you to know that I’ve put a lot of thought in what I am about to say to you,” he said, and began pacing about the narrow parlor. “Odd. I feel a little tongue-tied.”

Josephine curled up in an overstuffed chair, tucked her bare feet under her, and watched him warily. “I hope you are not changing your mind,” she said. “I’m doing much better. My times are improving. I’ve been catching up. And now that the poor baronet is out of the race, I have a very good chance.”

“Of course you have!”

“Joe Mudd isn’t as fast. And Steve Stevens can’t keep going much longer.”

“You’re going to win. I’m sure of it.”

Josephine grinned. “That’s a relief. You looked so nervous, I thought you were dropping me . . . But what are you trying to say?”

Whiteway stood to his full height, thrust out his chest and belly, and blurted, “Marry me!”

“What?”

“I’ll make a wonderful husband, and you’ll be rich, and you can fly aeroplanes every day until we have children . . . What do you say?”

After a long silence, Josephine said, “I don’t know what to say. I mean, it’s very nice of you to offer, but—”

“But what? What could be better?”