It came, now, slowly along the deserted block. The chauffeur had perhaps heard us, and was cruising past to see if we were possible fares. He halted at the curb. The girl had quieted; but when she saw the taxi her face registered wildest terror, and she shrank against me. "No! No! Don't let it kill me!" Larry and I were pulling her forward. "What the devil's the matter with you?" Larry demanded again. She was suddenly wildly fighting with us. "No! That--that mechanism--" "Get her in it!" Larry panted. "We'll have the neighborhood on us!" It seemed the only thing to do. We flung her, scrambling and fighting, into the taxi. To the half-frightened, reluctant driver, Larry said vigorously: "It's all right; we're just taking her to a doctor. Hurry and get us away from here. There's good money in it for you!" The promise--and the reassurance of the physician's address--convinced the chauffeur. We whirled off toward Washington Square. Within the swaying taxi I sat holding the trembling girl. She was sobbing now, but quieting. "There," I murmured. "We won't hurt you; we're just taking you to a doctor. You can explain to him. He's very intelligent." "Yes," she said softly. "Yes. Thank you. I'm all right now." She relaxed against me. So beautiful, so dainty a creature. Larry leaned toward us. "You're better now?" "Yes." "That's fine. You'll be all right. Don't think about it." * * * * * He was convinced she was insane. I breathed again the vague hope that it might not be so. She was huddled against me. Her face, upturned to mine, had color in it now; red lips; a faint rose tint in the pale cheeks. She murmured, "Is this New York?" My heart sank. "Yes," I answered. "Of course it is." "But when?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, what year?" "Why, 1935!" She caught her breath. "And your name is--" "George Rankin." "And I,"--her laugh had a queer break in it--"I am Mistress Mary Atwood. But just a few minutes ago--oh, am I dreaming? Surely I'm not insane!" Larry again leaned over us. "What are you talking about?" "You're friendly, you two. Like men; strange, so very strange-looking young men. This--this carriage without any horses--I know now it won't hurt me." She sat up. "Take me to your doctor. And then to the general of your army. I must see him, and warn him. Warn you all." She was turning half hysterical again. She laughed wildly. "Your general--he won't be General Washington, of course. But I must warn him." She gripped me. "You think I am demented. But I am not. I am Mary Atwood, daughter of Major Charles Atwood, of General Washington's staff. That was my home, where you broke the window. But it did not look like that a few moments ago. You tell me this is the year 1935, but just a few moments ago I was living in the year 1777!" CHAPTER II _From Out of the Past_