"The Parkingham Hotel, eh? Fine little place, that! How much did you say was in this roll?"
"Never mind. Give it back to me at once or I'll—I'll call the police."
"Go ahead! Call your head off. Good night!"
Ten seconds later, Stuyvesant alone stood guard over the scattered effects on the curb. A tail-light winked blearily at him for an additional second or two, the taxi chortled disdainfully, and seemed to grind its teeth as it joined the down-town ghosts.
"Blighter!" shouted Stuyvesant, and urged by a sudden sense of alarm, strode rapidly away,—not in the wake of Miss Emsdale nor toward the house from which she had been banished, but diagonally across the street. A glance in the direction she had taken revealed no sign of her, but the sound of excited voices reached his ear. On the opposite sidewalk he slowed down to a walk, and peering intently into the fog, listened with all his ears for the return of the incomprehensible governess, accompanied by a patrolman!
A most amazing thing had happened to Lady Jane. At the corner below she bumped squarely into a pedestrian hurrying northward.
"I'm sorry," exclaimed the pedestrian. He did not say "excuse me" or "I beg pardon."
Jane gasped. "Tom—Mr. Trotter!"
"Jane!" cried the man in surprise. "I say, what's up? 'Gad, you're trembling like a leaf."
She tried to tell him.
"Take a long breath," he suggested gently, as the words came swiftly and disjointedly from her lips.
