But conversation was not easy under the circumstances. The noise of wagons, trains and cars was so great at the station that they could think of nothing but the din, and when they had threaded their way out of the tangle and started rattling over the pavement the driver went at such a furious pace that they could still only converse by shouting and that not at all satisfactorily. It seemed a strange thing that any cabman should drive at such a rapid rate within the city limits, but as Gordon was anxious to get away from the station and the keen-eyed detective as fast as possible he thought nothing of it at first. After a shouted word or two they ceased to try to talk, and Gordon, half shyly, reached out a reassuring hand and laid it on the girl’s shrinking one that lay in her lap. He had not meant to keep it there but a second, just to make her understand that all was well, and he would soon be able to explain things, but as she did not seem to resent it, nor draw her own away, he yielded to the temptation and kept the small gloved hand in his. The carriage rattled on, bumpety-bump, over rough places, around corners, tilting now and then sideways, and Celia, half-frightened, was forced to cling to her protector to keep from being thrown on the floor of the cab. “Oh, are we running away?” she breathed awesomely into his ear. “I think not,--dear,” he answered back, the last word inaudible. “The driver thinks we are in a hurry but he has no need to go at this furious pace. I will tell him.”