He turned his cab around and they watched the entrance to the Tours from across the street. She plunged into the middle of her business without any preamble. "You crossed on the Twenty-third Street ferry. I couldn't find a cab just at that moment, so I had to follow on foot. So I lost you when you drove away on the other side. Where did you take him over there?" "Nowhere," said Greg. "It appeared he was just looking for a drink and when we couldn't find a place we came back to New York." "Is that all?" she said, disappointed and puzzled. "What reason did he give for getting out of the cab on the way over?" "No reason. He seemed to be a little drunk." "Drunk? I can't understand it. He's not a drinking man." "Who is he?" asked Greg with natural curiosity. She gave him a look of appeal. "Don't ask me. I can't tell you the truth." Her speech had an alluring quality of strangeness. It was not that she spoke with an accent exactly; it was more like the speech of an American who might have lived long among foreigners. Greg could not read her race from her features; she had great brown eyes with a fleck of red in them when they caught the light; her skin was creamy. He could not tell the color of her hair because of the cap that she had pulled completely over her head in the style that youths affect, but he guessed it was dark red to match her eyebrows. She had a soft and babyish mouth that did not seem to go with the fiery eyes. Greg guessed that the eyes expressed her character, while the mouth had just been thrown in to make her adorable. Her voice was too deep for her size, but that was no doubt assumed. Sometimes when she forgot it scaled up. She was displaying a boyish nonchalance that was altogether delightful and funny. To tease her Greg offered her a cigarette. She declined it. "I smoke a pipe," was her astonishing reason. She did not, however, offer to produce it. As she had forecast, the tall foreigner did indeed presently issue from the Tours, and hailed one of the cabs waiting below the entrance. Greg cranked his engine. The other cab turned around at the corner and passed down beside them. Greg took care to be hidden behind his cab as the other passed. Climbing in he followed it as a matter of course. "What time do you suppose it is?" asked his companion. "About three." "What a night!" she murmured. "You're dead right!" said Greg grimly. He remembered what he carried behind and shivered. They sped down town over the smooth pavement of Broadway. That erstwhile busy street was deserted now except for an occasional motor car like themselves roaring up or down with wide open throttle and except for the ubiquitous cats prowling diagonally across from curb to curb on errands known to themselves. The street lamps shone down like moons as indifferently upon solitude as upon crowds; all the shop fronts were dark.