The Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow had been something like two hours in Jaffa Junction. Two hours in Jaffa Junction is more than sufficient for any man. For the Hon. Alexander the night held nothing save the melancholy prospect of seeing a friend abandon himself to the emotional insanity of marriage. For marriage Mr. Burrow had no tolerance. For women he had a supreme contempt. When the train which should have borne his friend whisked through and brought no Copewell, the best man became testy. Mr. Burrow reflected that this development left him to take charge of an unclaimed lady, whom he did not want. He found the idea disconcerting. Decidedly he must devise some escape. Then an inspirational idea dawned. He would rush up to her Pullman when it arrived. He would shout warningly, “On your way! Your lunatic didn’t come!” That ought to solve the situation very nicely. First, though, he would call up Mercerville and find out what had happened. Calling up Mercerville from Jaffa Junction proved an undertaking of such magnitude that Mr. Burrow’s grouch ripened slowly into misanthropy before it was accomplished. The telephone exchange, instead of being central in location, seemed to have been placed on the principle of an eruptive hospital in far-away isolation. When at last he got Copewell’s lodgings it was to learn that Copewell had left on the west-bound express. As the Honorable Mr. Burrow came down the stairs of the telephone exchange the shriek of a train whistle smote discordantly on his ears. The motor proved balky and required a singular amount of cranking. The cranking required a superlative amount of profanity. Altogether the series of petty annoyances spelled delay. The station was quite a distance away and Mr. Burrow proceeded to desecrate the speed-limit, rehearsing as he went, “On your way, young woman! He didn’t come!” And Miss Asheton, alighting on the station platform, was startled to find it empty. She had expected it to be filled with the welcoming presence of Mr. Copewell. Her alarm was at once dissipated, however, by the glare of acetylene headlights whirling around the curve of the road some distance away. The mad speed of the approaching car indicated that it was her own private reception-committee. She set down her suit-case and waited. “Captain” McDonald also saw the automobile headlights. He knew that automobiles were not indigenous to Jaffa Junction. This one could mean only that Miss Asheton was being properly and enthusiastically met.