Is it necessary for me to remain? she asked.
You must give me your name, he replied. We'll need you as a witness.
They were standing directly outside the window of Harold's taxi. He could plainly hear the questions and answers.
But my man was not to blame. The truck-driver turned to the left.
That's what you can tell the judge.
The judge!
The young lady began to cry in earnest.
Your name, miss, and then you can go.
She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. She was so pitiful and so appealing: Harold felt very sorry for her.
Alice Blake.
Address?
56 East Thirty-seventh Street.
Thank you, miss. You will get a summons. You must be in court tomorrow at nine o'clock.
Isn't there some way. . . . ?
No, miss, no other way.
She turned to depart, hoping, doubtless, to find another cab. In the meantime, observing that it would take some moments to clear the street, Harold's driver was attempting to turn about and escape by way of Twenty-ninth Street. At last he succeeded. On the corner stood Miss Blake, timidly bidding for a taxi, but every one that passed seemed to be occupied.
