For what had been a revealing fact to Cornelia, and would have greatly changed the view of things, was entirely unknown to Carey. Clytie Dodd kept her family in the background as much as possible, and to that end met her “gentlemen friends” in parks, or at soda-fountains, or by the wayside casually. She had a regular arrangement with a certain corner drug-store whereby telephone messages would reach her and bring her to the ’phone whenever she was at home; but her friends seldom came to her house, and never met her family. She had a hard-working, sensible father, an over-worked, fretful, tempestuous mother, and a swarm of little wild, outrageous brothers and sisters, none of whom approved of her high social aspirations. She found it healthier in every way to keep her domestic and social lives utterly apart; consequently Carey had never seen Sam Dodd, or his eyes might have instantly been opened. Sam was very useful to his sister on occasion when well primed with one of her hard-earned quarters, and could, if there were special inducement, even exercise a bit of detective ability. Sam knew how to disappear off the face of the earth, and he had done it thoroughly this time. Carey leaned forward, and questioned the driver. “What’s the matter? Anything serious?” But the driver sat unmoved, staring ahead and making his car go slamming along, regardless of ruts or bumps, at a tremendous rate of speed. Carey did not object to the speed. He wanted to get back. He tried again, touching the man on the shoulder and shouting his question. The man turned after a second nudge, and stared resentfully, but appeared to be deaf. Carey shouted a third time, and then the man gave evidence of being also dumb; but after a fourth attempt he gave forth the brief word: “I dunno. Lady jes’ hired me.” The man did not look so stupid as he sounded, and Carey made several attempts to get further information, even to ask for a description of the lady who had sent him; but he answered either, “I dunno,” or, “Yep, I gezzo”; and Carey finally gave up. He dived into his pocket for the note once more, having a desire to study the handwriting of the young woman for whom he had newly acquired an admiration. It didn’t seem real that expedition. As he thought of it, it didn’t seem like that quiet, modest girl to send for a comparative stranger to help her in distress. It seemed more like Clytie. But that note had not been Clytie’s writing. Clytie affected a large, round, vertical hand like a young school-child, crude and unfinished. This letter had been delicately written by a finished hand on thick cream stationery. Where was that note? He was sure he had put it in his pocket.