Gus had told her he would be waiting for her, but she could not find him. She went the length of the train to the privilege car, pushing open the door sufficiently to peep within. At least a score of men of the carnival family were seated at three or four tables, their heads almost unrecognizable through the thick layers of cigar and cigaret smoke. There was little conversation except an occasional oath, but the steady clacking of poker chips upon the bare tables came to her distinctly. She closed the door noiselessly and jumped from the platform of the coach to the ground. It would be mean to disturb Gus, she reflected, for he loved poker better than anything except ballyhoo, and there was no real reason why she should not walk to the carnival grounds alone. Of course she would be conspicuous on the streets in her “Princess Lalla” costume and make-up, but if she paid no attention to anyone who tried to accost her, there was certainly not much danger. She began to run, leaving the train swiftly behind her, but she slowed to a sedate walk when she reached the business streets through which she had to pass to reach the carnival grounds. She was crossing Capital Avenue, at the end of which sat the great white stone structure which gave the street its name, when a limousine skidded to a sudden stop and an all-too-familiar voice sang out: “Princess Lalla! What in the world are you doing out alone at this time of night?” Sally contemplated flight, but the limousine blocked her path. Before she could turn back the way she had come Van Horne stepped out of the tonneau of the car. “Let me drive you to the carnival grounds, Sally,” he urged in a low voice, completely devoid of mockery for once. “It’s really not safe for you to be out alone dressed like that. Come along! Don’t be prudish, child! I’m not going to harm you. Remember, ‘I’m not that kind of a man!’” And he laughed as he almost lifted her into the car. She sank back upon the cushions, feeling their depth and softness with a childish awe. The chauffeur started the car, and Van Horne dropped a hand lightly over hers as he leaned back and regarded her quizzically. “I’m glad I ran into you,” he told her. “I suppose you’ve been told that Enid—Mrs. Barr—is hot on your trail?” “Yes,” Sally nodded, her lips too stiff with sudden fright to form the word. “She’s almost convinced that you’re really Sally Ford,” he told her lightly. “And if she makes up her mind, there’s nothing in heaven or hell that can stop Enid Barr. A damnably persistent little wretch! I’ve never been able to understand Enid’s passion for succoring ‘fallen girls.’ She appears to be such a normal little pagan otherwise.” Sally said nothing because she could not. But her sapphire eyes were enormous and her mouth was twitching piteously.