When the taxicab drew up at the Union Station the glare of lights, the stir of the place enthused her. She was here at last, on her way, success almost attained. She did not share Ducie’s sudden fever of anxiety in noting the great outpouring of smoke from the shed where the train stood almost ready to start, the resonance of its bell and the clamors of the exhaust steam of the engine already beginning to jar the air. He ran swiftly up the stair to the ticket office, leaving her with Colonel Kenwynton, and was back almost immediately, taking her protectively by the arm as he urged her along into the great shed. At the gate she was surprised to see that he presented three tickets, but he voluntarily explained, not treating her as an unreasoning child, as was Floyd-Rosney’s habit, that he thought it best that he and the Colonel should accompany her to the first station, to see her fairly clear of the city. He was saying this as they walked swiftly down between the many rows of rails in the great shed where a number of cars were standing, and the train which she was to take was beginning to move slowly forward. Her heart sank as she marked its progress, but Ducie lifted his arm and signed eagerly to the conductor just mounting the front step of the Pullman. The train slowed down a bit; the stool was placed by the alert porter, but the step passed before she could put her foot upon it. Ducie caught her up and swung her to the next platform as it glided by, and the two men clambered aboard as the cars went on. They were laughing and elated as they conveyed her into its shelter. Then a deep shade settled on the face of the Colonel. “Why, my dear madam, you have no luncheon!” He regarded the suitcase with reprobation, as affording no opportunities of refreshment, save of the toilette. “But, Colonel, I don’t lunch throughout the night,” she returned, with a smile. “I shall be glad to sleep,” she added plaintively. The Colonel looked disconsolate for a moment. Then he took a handsome little flask from his pocket. “With my best compliments,” he said. “But I don’t drink brandy, either,” she declared, strangely flattered, “and I have no pistol pocket.” “Tuck it in your suitcase,” he insisted seriously. “Something might happen. You might--might--see fit to faint, you know.” “Oh, no, I never faint,” she protested. “If I haven’t fainted so far I shall hold my own the rest of the way.” As they sat in the section which Ducie had reserved for her the Colonel eyed him enigmatically, as if referring something for his approval. Then he said bluffly: “I am sorry I haven’t the ten dollars which you did us the honor to wish to borrow. I have nothing less than a twenty, that you can get changed by the conductor and return to me at your good pleasure. I’m getting rich, Mrs. Floyd-Rosney,” he laughed gaily, at the incongruity of the jest. “And I never carry anything but large bills.”