"Hey!" called out the driver, springing to the sidewalk. "What's all this? Getting me in wrong, huh? That's what the little roll of bills was for, eh? Well, guess again! Get out of the way, you, or I'll bat you one over the bean." In less time than it takes to tell it, he had whisked the trunk from the platform of the taxi and the three bags from the interior. "I ought to beat you up anyhow," he grunted. "The Parkingham Hotel, eh? Fine little place, that! How much did you say was in this roll?" "Never mind. Give it back to me at once or I'll--I'll call the police." "Go ahead! Call your head off. Good _night_!" Ten seconds later, Stuyvesant alone stood guard over the scattered effects on the curb. A tail-light winked blearily at him for an additional second or two, the taxi chortled disdainfully, and seemed to grind its teeth as it joined the down-town ghosts. "Blighter!" shouted Stuyvesant, and urged by a sudden sense of alarm, strode rapidly away,--not in the wake of Miss Emsdale nor toward the house from which she had been banished, but diagonally across the street. A glance in the direction she had taken revealed no sign of her, but the sound of excited voices reached his ear. On the opposite sidewalk he slowed down to a walk, and peering intently into the fog, listened with all his ears for the return of the incomprehensible governess, accompanied by a patrolman! A most amazing thing had happened to Lady Jane. At the corner below she bumped squarely into a pedestrian hurrying northward. "I'm sorry," exclaimed the pedestrian. He did not say "excuse me" or "I beg pardon." Jane gasped. "Tom--Mr. Trotter!" "Jane!" cried the man in surprise. "I say, what's up? 'Gad, you're trembling like a leaf." She tried to tell him. "Take a long breath," he suggested gently, as the words came swiftly and disjointedly from her lips. She did so, and started all over again. This time he was able to understand her. "Wait! Tell me the rest later on," he interrupted. "Come along! This looks pretty ugly to me. By gad, I--I believe he was planning to abduct you or something as--" "I must have a policeman," she protested, holding back. "I was looking for one when you came up." "Nonsense! We don't need a bobby. I can take care of--" "But that man will make off with my bags." "We'll see," he cried, and she was swept along up the street, running to keep pace with his prodigious strides. He had linked his arm through hers. They found her effects scattered along the edge of the sidewalk. Trotter laughed, but it was not a good-humoured laugh. "Skipped!" he grated. "I might have known it. Now, let me think. What is the next, the best thing to do? Go up there and ring that doorbell and--" "No! You are not to do that. Sit down here beside me. My--my knees are frightfully shaky. So silly of them. But I--I--really it was quite a shock I had, Mr. Trotter." "Better call me Tom,--for the present at least," he suggested, sitting down beside her on the trunk.