"Didn't your party show up?" he said. "I call that a mean trick. You had better let me help you out, after all. You look like a girl with sand. What say we give 'em a lesson? We can have supper at a nice, quiet little place I know up the street, take in a show afterward, and then when we're good and ready hunt up your slow-coach friends. Is it a go?" She looked every way but toward him, saw a policeman, and aimed forthwith for the shelter of his uniform. Halfway she felt her hand seized, turned hotly, expecting the drummer, and plumped joyfully into the arms of a young person of fashion who greeted her with an ecstatic hug. "Amy! I was never so glad to see you!" The girl emerged from the embrace, panting. "I really think you are," she said. "Sorry to keep you waiting. There was a block on the 'L.' What was that fellow saying to you?" When Jean had told her she peered eagerly into the crowd. "I find blond hair lets you in for a lot of that," she commented. "He was a traveling man, you say?" "I think so." "Sort of sandy, with a reddish mustache? I could only see his back." "Sandy? I'm not sure. I avoided looking at him." Amy was silent while they passed to the street, and continued to scan the faces about her. When they had wormed into a street-car packed with standing women and seated men she spoke again of Jean's adventure. "Did he say what line of goods he was carrying?" she asked. "No," Jean answered indifferently. The spectacle of the pavement without had already ousted the drummer from her thoughts. "Or where he lived?" "Where he lived?" She turned now and saw that the girl's eyes were very bright. "He mentioned that he had boarded here somewhere--Harlem, was it?" "Harlem!" Amy's pink cheeks turned rose-red. "And did he have a scar, a little white scar, near his eyebrow?" "I didn't notice." "I wish you had." Jean eyed her narrowly. "I wish I had, too, if it matters so much," she returned. Amy donned a mask of transparent indifference. "Of course it doesn't matter," she said. "At first I thought it might be somebody I used to know." IX They alighted at a kind of wooded island, girt by trolley lines and crisscrossed by many paths, along one of which they struck. Although it was November, the benches by the way frequently held slouching forms, sodden men or unkempt women, at whom none glanced save a fat policeman. Neighboring electric signs lit the lower end of the little park brilliantly, and here, cheek by jowl with restaurant, vaudeville, and saloon, Jean suddenly spied an august figure with which school-history woodcuts had made her familiar from pinafores. "Why, this is Union Square!" she cried triumphantly. "I know it by Washington's statue over there. And this street we're coming to must be Broadway."