CHAPTER XXVII
The Ring
THEIRS was the last vehicle to swing between the gates of the Twenty-third Street ferry before these last were closed.
And this was well, for Alan, glancing through the rear window, started involuntarily when he descried a powerful touring-car tearing toward the ferry-house, its one passenger half rising from the front seat, beside the driver, and exhibiting a countenance purple with congested chagrin as he saw his car barred out of the carriage entrance.
The girl caught nervously at Alan's hand.
"What is it, dear?"
He made a gesture of exasperation.
"Marrophat," he snapped.
She uttered a hushed cry of dismay. But at that instant the taxicab rolled aboard the ferry-boat, the deck gates were closed, a hoarse whistle rent the roaring silence of the city, winches rattled and chains clanked, and the boat wore ponderously out of its slip.
"So much for Mr. Marrophat!" Alan crowed, sitting
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