"It's a fact," she thought. "But, if they didn't get my message, I reckon I can find the house, just the same." Having been so much in Denver she knew a good deal about city ways. She did not linger about the station long. Outside there was a row of taxicabs and cabmen. There was an officer, too; but he was engaged at the moment in helping a fussy old lady get seven parcels, a hat box, and a dog basket into a cab. So Helen walked down the row of waiting taxicabs. At the end cab the chauffeur on the seat turned around and beckoned. "Cab, Miss? Take you anywhere you say." "You know where this number on Madison Street is, of course?" she said, showing a card with the address on it. "Sure, Miss. Jump right in." "How much will it be?" "Trunk, Miss?" "Yes. Here is the check." The chauffeur got out of his seat quickly and took the check. "It's so much a mile. The little clock tells you the fare," he said, pleasantly. "All right," replied Helen. "You get the trunk," and she stepped into the vehicle. In a few moments he was back with the trunk and secured it on the roof of his cab. Then he reached in and tucked a cloth around his passenger, although the evening was not cold, and got in under the wheel. In another moment the taxicab rolled out from under the roofed concourse. Helen had never ridden in any vehicle that went so smoothly and so fast. It shot right downtown, mile after mile; but Helen was so interested in the sights she saw from the window of the cab that she did not worry about the time that elapsed. By and by they went under an elevated railroad structure; the street grew more narrow and--to tell the truth--Helen thought the place appeared rather dirty and unkempt. Then the cab was turned suddenly across the way, under another elevated structure, and into a narrow, noisy, ill-kept street. "Can it be that Uncle Starkweather lives in this part of the town?" thought Helen, in amazement. She had always understood that the Starkweather mansion was in one of the oldest and most respectable parts of New York. But although _this_ might be one of the older parts of the city, to Helen's eyes it did _not_ look respectable. The street was full of children and grown people in odd costumes. And there was a babel of voices that certainly were not English. They shot across another narrow street--then another. And then the cab stopped beside the curb near a corner gaslight. "Surely this is not Madison?" demanded Helen, of the driver, as her door was opened. "There's the name, Miss," said the man, pointing to the street light. Helen looked. She really _did_ see "MADISON" in blue letters on the sign. "And is this the number?" she asked again, looking at the three-story, shabby house before which the cab had stopped. "Yes, Miss. Don't you see it on the fanlight?"