Yet there was a chance that the police might save her. With this hope she dashed her music scroll against the windows on each side of the cab and shivered them to atoms, calling at the top of her voice for help. The swift rush of the cab and the sound of a woman’s voice shouting for aid aroused the police. They started forward. But the horses were rushing so swiftly that no one dared to touch them. The driver seemed to them to have lost control. They thought that the horses were running away, and that those within the cab were frightened. Away they went through street after street, and Beatrice never ceased to call. The excitement which was created by the runaway horses did not abate, and at length when the driver stopped a policeman hurried up. The house before which the cab stopped was a plain two-story one, in a quiet-looking street. A light shone from the front-parlor window. As the cab drew up the door opened and a man came out. Beatrice saw the policeman. “Help!” she cried; “I implore help. This wretch is carrying me away.” “What’s this?” growled the policeman. At this the man that had come out of the house hurried forward. “Have you found her?” exclaimed a well-known voice. “Oh, my child! How could you leave your father’s roof!” It was John Potts. Beatrice was silent for a moment in utter amazement. Yet she made a violent effort against her despair. “You have no control over me,” said she, bitterly. “I am of age. And you,” said she to the policeman, “I demand your help. I put myself under your protection, and order you either to take that man in charge or to let me go to my home.” “Oh, my daughter!” cried Potts. “Will you still be relentless?” “Help me!” cried Beatrice, and she opened the cab-door. “The policeman can do nothing,” said Potts. “You are not of age. He will not dare to take you from me.” “I implore you,” cried Beatrice, “save me from this man. Take me to the police-station--any where rather than leave me here!” “You can not,” said Potts to the bewildered policeman. “Listen. She is my daughter and under age. She ran away with a strolling Italian vagabond, with whom she is leading an improper life. I have got her back.” “It’s false!” cried Beatrice, vehemently. “I fled from this man’s house because I feared his violence.” “That is an idle story,” said Potts. “Save me!” cried Beatrice. “I don’t know what to do--I suppose I’ve got to take you to the station, at any rate,” said the policeman, hesitatingly. “Well,” said Potts to Beatrice, “if you do go to the station-house you’ll have to be handed back to me. You are under age.” “It’s false!” cried Beatrice. “I am twenty.” “No, you are not more than seventeen.” “Langhetti can prove that I am twenty.” “How? I have documents, and a father’s word will be believed before a paramour’s.” This taunt stung Beatrice to the soul.