Plan after plan rushed through Quin's mind, only to be impatiently discarded. He sat tense and still, with his clenched hands rammed in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the black square of the window. Sometimes dim objects flew past, and now and then sharp, vivid lights stabbed the darkness. Once the smelting-pots of a huge iron foundry belched forth a circle of swirling flames, and for a moment wrenched his mind off his problems. Then the regular pounding of the wheels on the rails recalled him. "She's gone to be married. Gone--to be married. Gone--to be married." He realized that they had been saying it in monotonous rhythm ever since he started--that they would go on saying it through eternity. Suddenly the train jarred to a standstill. Figures with lanterns emerged through a cloud of steam and stood under his window. "Guess we got a hot-box," said a sleepy passenger across the aisle. "That means I'll miss my connection." Quin got up and went out on the platform. He was filled with rage at the lazy deliberation with which the men set about their task. He longed to wrench the tools out of their hands and do the job himself. "How much will this put us behind?" he demanded of the conductor. "Oh, not more than twenty minutes. We'll make some of it up before morning." Once more under way, Quin dropped into a troubled sleep. He dreamed that he was pursuing a Hun over miles of barbed-wire entanglements; but when he overtook him and forced him to the ground, the face under the steel helmet was the smiling, supercilious face of Harold Phipps. He woke up with a start and stretched his cold limbs. The black square of the window had turned to gray; arrows of rain shot diagonally across it. He realized for the first time that he had neither hat nor overcoat, but he did not care. In ten minutes more he would be in Chicago, in the same city with Eleanor. Notwithstanding the fact that it was pouring rain when the train pulled into the station, Quin stood on the lowest step of the platform, ready to alight. "Say, young fellow, you forgot your hat," said a man behind him. "Didn't have any," answered Quin. "I got an extra cap if you want it," offered the man obligingly. Quin, already on the platform, caught it as the man tossed it out to him. Dashing through the depot, he hurled himself into a taxi. "Monon Station!" he shouted, "and drive like the devil." Just what kind of chauffeur the devil is has never been demonstrated, but if that taxi-driver, urged on by Quin, was his counterpart, it is safe to infer that there are no traffic laws in Hades. In spite of the fact that the streets were like glass from the driving rain, and the wind-shield a gray blur, in spite of the fact that a tire went flat on a rear wheel, that decrepit old taxi rose to the occasion and made the transit in record time.