Minot threw down his napkin. "Oh, he is, is he?" he cried. "Well, I guess not. Come on, Jack." "What are you going to do?" "I'm going down to the station and stop him. He's caused me too much trouble to let him slide out like this. A fake, eh? Well, I'll have him behind the bars to-night." A negro cab driver was, by superhuman efforts, roused to hasty action. He rattled the two young men wildly down the silent street to the railway station. They dashed into the drab little waiting room just as a voice called: "Train for the north! Jacksonville! Savannah! Washington! New York!" "There he is!" Paddock cried, and pointed to the lean figure of Lord Harrowby slipping out the door nearest the train-shed. Paddock and Minot ran across the waiting room and out into the open. In the distance they saw Harrowby passing through the gate and on to the tracks. They ran up just in time to have the gate banged shut in their faces. "Here," cried Minot. "I've got to get in there. Let me through!" "Where's your ticket?" demanded the great stone face on guard. "I haven't got one, but--" "Too late anyhow," said the face. "The train's started." Through the wooden pickets Minot saw the long yellow string of coaches slipping by. He turned to Paddock. "Oh, very well," he cried, exulting. "Let him go. Come on!" He dashed back to the carriage that had brought them from the hotel, the driver of which sat in a stupor trying to regain his wits and nonchalance. "What now?" Paddock wanted to know. "Get in!" commanded Minot. He pushed his friend on to the musty seat, and followed. "To the De la Pax," he cried, "as fast as you can go." "But what the devil's the need of hurrying now?" demanded Paddock. "All the need in the world," replied Minot joyously. "I'm going to have a talk with Cynthia Meyrick. A little talk--alone." "Ah," said Mr. Paddock softly, "love's young dream." CHAPTER XVII THE SHORTEST WAY HOME The moon was shining in that city of the picturesque past. Its light fell silvery on the narrow streets, the old adobe houses, the listless palms. In every shadow seemed to lurk the memory of a love long dead--a love of the old passionate Spanish days. A soft breeze came whispering from the very sea Ponce de Leon had sailed. It was as if at a signal--a bugle-call, a rose thrown from a window, the boom of a cannon at the water's edge--the forgotten past of hot hearts, of arms equally ready for cutlass or slender waist, could live again. And Minot was as one who had heard such a signal. He loved. The obstacle that had confronted him, wrung his heart, left him helpless, was swept away. He was like a man who, released from prison, sees the sky, the green trees, the hills again. He loved! The moon was shining!