They walked on together, and for a longer time than either of them realized. Winifred was rather bewitched. Carshaw was something of a revelation to her in an elusive quality of mind or manner which she in her heart could only call "charming." She spoke of life at Brown, Son & Brown's, in Greenwich Village. She even revealed that she had been crying because of dark clouds which had gathered round her of a sudden, doubts and fears for which she had no name, and because of a sort of dream the previous night in which she had seen a man's Indian face, and heard a hushed, grim voice say: "She must be taken out of New York--she is the image of her mother." "Ah! And your mother--who and where is she?" asked Carshaw. "I don't know. I can't tell. I never knew her," answered Winifred droopingly, with a shake of her head. "And as to your father?" "I have no father. I have only my aunt." "Winifred," said Carshaw solemnly, "will you consider me your friend from this night?" "You are kind. I trust you," she murmured. "A friend is a person who acts for another with the same zeal as for himself, and who has the privilege of doing whatever seems good to him for that other. Am I to regard myself as thus privileged?" Winifred, who had never flirted with any young man in her life, fancied she knew nothing about the rules of the game. She was confused. She veiled her eyes. "I don't know--perhaps--we shall see," she stammered. Which was not so bad for a novice. They parted with a warm hand-shake. Ten minutes later Carshaw was in a telephone booth with Clancy's ear at the other end of the wire. "I have just had a chat with Miss Bartlett," he began. "Tut, tut! How passing strange!" cackled the detective. "The merest chance in the world, I'm sure." "Yes. The miracle came off, so you're entitled to your gibe. But I have news for you. It's about a dream and a face." "Gee! Throw the picture on the screen, Mr. Carshaw." Then Carshaw spoke, and Clancy listened and bade him work more miracles, even though he might have to report such phenomena to the Psychical Research Society. Next morning Carshaw, a hard man when offended, visited Brown, Son & Brown, who had executed a large rebinding order for his father's library, and Fowle was speedily out of a job. The ex-foreman knew the source of his misfortune, and vowed vengeance. In the evening, about half past six, Carshaw was back in One Hundred and Twelfth Street. There had been no promise of a meeting between him and Winifred--no promise, but, by those roundabout means by which people in sympathy understand each other, it was perfectly well understood that they would happen to meet again that night.