A taxi with flag out had slowed at her gesture. She was about to enter it. In quiet, crisp tones she gave her address to the driver; then these instructions to Pape: “Get the next cab that comes along and follow me to East Sixty-third Street. Under the circumstances you will excuse me for preferring to ride over alone. I’ll wait for you on the stoop.” She did. And without a word she preceded him up the three screeching, scrooping, shrieking flights, which were not nearly so uncommunicative as his guide. “Life’s a shaky thing. But love is worse—worse—worse”—the first. And the scroopy second: “Things get queerer every step—queerer—queerer.” Shrieked the third: “Look out. Like as not he’ll leap and lam you. Look out lest he leap and lam!” The fourth floor front was empty when they entered. Pape noted its quaint consistency during the moment she left him alone—an oblong room fitted sparingly with Colonial antiques, with a round rag rug over the boards of its floor, with several old, interesting engravings on its walls. He merely glanced at the horsehair Davenport to which she had waved him; turned and stood with face toward the sliding door through which she had disappeared. Soon this door was drawn open. Forward she led by the hand the man. A tall, fit specimen he was, his face clean-shaved and strong-featured, his hair a tawny mass which probably once had been auburn, but now was blond from a two-thirds admixture of gray. The light of devotion irradiated the girl’s uplifted face as she stopped before him. She looked like a slender white taper beside some shrine, her lips the live red, her eyes the blaze blue, her hair the waving suggestion of its lighted tip. “Dear,” she said to her companion, “I want to introduce Mr. Why-Not Pape, the Westerner I told you about.” The man’s smile was cordial, beautiful. He stepped forward with outstretched hand. “Welcome to our city, Why-Not Pape,” he quoted from the Times Cañon sign which, patently, had been part of Jane’s tale. But Pape didn’t—just couldn’t meet the advance. He stood stubbornly still before the Davenport, his arms stiff at his sides, his suffering eyes upon the lit taper—upon Jane. And into her devotional mood seemed to return that gentling comprehension of dumb brutes. “I _beg_ your pardon,” she said to him. “Mr. Pape, my father.” CHAPTER XV—THE LIMIT OF TRUST Not until Jane was finishing an account of his disposal of the “grave-diggers” did Pape feel sure that the splendid old man was blind. Suspicion had come from the uncertainty with which he had veered toward the chair placed for him, from his indirect gaze toward the girl, from the hand outstretched for the touch of her hand. Conclusion surprised from the Westerner a low, sympathetic exclamation which Jane heard, evidently understood and chose to answer openly. “Yes,” said she, “my father has been unable to see since the war. France, you know, and mustard gas.”