She glanced up and down the street again. Yes, it seemed to be entirely deserted. She did not see the figure which lurked in the shadows on the other side. She had said that she would be all right; that she was not afraid. Well, she was not afraid, but she was getting just a bit nervous. She wished that Eugene would hurry with Charlie. She could not stand by that tree any longer anyway. She began to walk slowly up and down, watching the door out of which she expected Jane and Charlie to appear at any moment, and she wondered what she should say to Charlie. She had no set speech prepared. What was there to say that could possibly do any good? Probably she would say nothing at all and they would set off in silence, all three, to their hotel. She had other thoughts, too, but they need not concern us now. We are not thinking of Fox Sanderson and his silly speeches nor of Henrietta and her contentment; for she ought to be contented if ever a girl was. Sally's eyes filled with tears and her thoughts insensibly drifted away from Charlie and Jane as she paced slowly to and fro. And that lurking figure across the street was never very far away. The sound of a door shutting reverberated after the manner of all sounds in that street and there were voices. Sally had turned at the sound of the door. Somebody was coming out of the house and she hurried forward and stopped short. The figure on the other side of the street started forward and stopped short also. There were three men coming out, and the joyous voices were not Jane's and Charlie's. Their voices would not be joyous--if they spoke at all. The three men passed her, arm in arm, and they looked at her curiously as they passed and the hand of the oldest instinctively went to his hat. Sally saw that he was an elderly man with a pleasant face and that his mustache was snow-white. They had got but a few steps beyond when their pace slackened and this man seemed to hesitate. He looked back at her doubtfully. Then he sighed and the three resumed their brisk walk. "No use," he said. "Can't meddle. I wish I could. No good comes of it." Once more Sally took up her slow walk to and fro. She was glad that the three men had gone, but she was sorry, too. That elderly man had seemed kind and sympathetic and a gentleman; and he had come from that house. But that, Sally, was no recommendation. She knew that he had done the wise thing; or that he had not done the unwise thing, and probably he was right and no good came of meddling. And the sound of their steps died away as they turned a corner. Again Sally had the street to herself; Sally and the man lurking in the shadows. She found herself growing more and more oppressed with the sense of loneliness. If only somebody were there to wait with her! A quiet, out-of-the-way street, poorly lighted, is not the most exhilarating place for a girl at half-past eleven at night. If only Fox--