Before Peter had recovered enough from his thrill to put what he thought into speech, a policeman came riding towards them, leading the roan mare. “Any harm done?” he called. “None, fortunately. Where can we get a cab? Or can you bring one here?” “I’m afraid there’ll be none nearer than Fifty-ninth Street. They leave the other entrances before it’s as dark as this.” “Never mind the cab,” said the girl. “If you’ll help me to mount, I’ll ride home.” “That’s the pluck!” said the policeman. “Do you think you had better?” asked Peter. “Yes. I’m not a bit afraid. If you’ll just tighten the girth.” It seemed to Peter he had never encountered such a marvellously fascinating combination as was indicated by the clinging position of a minute ago and the erect one of the present moment. He tightened the girth with a pull that made the roan mare wonder if a steam-winch had hold of the end, and then had the pleasure of the little foot being placed in his hand for a moment, as he lifted the girl into the saddle. “I shall ride with you,” he said, mounting instantly. “Beg pardon,” said the policeman. “I must take your names. We are required to report all such things to headquarters.” “Why, Williams, don’t you know me?” asked Peter. Williams looked at Peter, now for the first time on a level with him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Stirling. It was so dark, and you are so seldom here afternoons that I didn’t know you.” “Tell the chief that this needn’t go on record, nor be given to the reporters.” “Very well, Mr. Stirling.” “I beg your pardon,” said the girl in a frank yet shy way, “but will you tell me your first name?” Peter was rather astonished, but he said “Peter.” “Oh!” cried the girl, looking Peter in the face. “I understand it now. I didn’t think I could behave so to a stranger! I must have felt it was you.” She was smiling joyfully, and she did not drop her eyes from his. On the contrary she held out her hand to him. Of course Peter took it. He did not stop to ask if it was right or wrong to hold a young girl’s hand. If it was wrong, it was certainly a very small one, judging from the size of the hand. “I was so mortified! But if it’s you it’s all right.” Peter thought this mood of the girl was both delightful and complimentary, but he failed to understand anything of it, except its general friendliness. His manner may have suggested this, for suddenly the girl said: “But of course, you do not know who I am? How foolish of me! I am Leonore D’Alloi.” It was Peter’s turn to gasp. “Not—?” he began and then stopped. “Yes,” said the girl joyfully, as if Peter’s “not” had had something delightful in it. “But—she’s a child.” “I’ll be eighteen next week,” said Leonore, with all the readiness of that number of years to proclaim its age.