Aroused to action too late, he bolted after her, only to see her enter a waiting taxi-cab and--yes, she _did_ look back over her shoulder. She knew he would follow! He raised his hat, and he was sure that she smiled--faintly, it is true, but still she smiled. If he hoped that she would condescend to alter her course, he was doomed to disappointment. The driver obeyed his original instructions and shot off in the direction of Lafayette Street. The memory of her tribute--a blush and a fleeting smile--was to linger with Sampson for many a weary, watchful day. The taxi-cab--a noisy, ungentle abomination--was whirling her corporeal loveliness out of his reach and vision with exasperating swiftness, leaving him high and dry in an endless, barren desert. His heart gave a tremendous jump when a traffic policeman stopped the car at the corner above. He set forth as fast as his long legs could carry him with dignity, hoping and praying that the officer would be as slow and as stubborn about--But she must have looked into the fellow's eyes and smiled, for, with surprising amiability, he signified that she was to proceed. Apparently he was too dazzled to reprimand or caution the driver, for the taxi went forward at an increased speed. Some one touched Sampson's elbow. He withdrew his gaze from the vanishing taxi-cab and allowed it to rest in sheer amazement upon the bleak countenance of No. 7. “She's going away,” said No. 7 in sepulchral tones. “Evidently,” said Sampson. “Exceeding the speed limit while she is about it, too.” “I mean,” said the other, “she's going to take a long journey. She's leaving New York! That taxi is full of satchels and valises and stuff, and the driver has orders to get her to the Hudson tube by eleven o'clock. I heard that much anyhow, hangin' around here. Say, do you know there is another woman in that cab with her? There sure is. I saw her plain as day. Kind of an old woman with two or three little satchels and one of them dinky white dogs in her lap.” “A lady's maid,” said Sampson. “Where do you suppose she's going?” “How should I know?” demanded Sampson severely. “And why is she running away without grandpa? What's going to become of the old man? Seems as though she'd ought to hang around until he's--” “I daresay she knows what she is doing,” said Sampson, disturbed by the same thoughts. “Maybe he's going to join her later on?” hopefully. “Over in Jersey somewhere.” “Very likely. Good-bye.” Sampson wrung the limp hand of No. 7 and made off toward Broadway. He lunched with a friend at the Lawyers' Club. In the smoking room afterwards, he came face to face with the assistant district attorney who had prosecuted the case of James Hildebrand. His friend exclaimed: “Hello, Wilks! You ought to know Mr. Sampson. He's been under your nose for a week or ten days.”