Then he went back to the last time he had had speech with her. It was during one of his frequent visits to New York, and he had dined at the club with her brother, who had told him that she was going to the play that night with her mother. So he had betaken himself to the theater also, and he had gazed at her across the house; and then he had put her and her mother into their carriage, and the old lady had asked him to dinner the next evening. He had supposed it was an eleventh-hour invitation and that he was to fill the seat of some man who had unexpectedly backed out; but none the less he had accepted with obvious pleasure. And it was from a few casual words of her father's, after dinner, that he got the first inkling of the railroad deal; and then, before the time came for him to go, he had been fortunate enough to have her to himself for a quarter of an hour. She had been graciousness itself, and for the first time he had begun to have hope. He could not recall what he had said, but his memory was clear as to how she had looked. He could not remember whether he had allowed her even a glimpse of his deep passion. It might be that she had guessed it, although she had made no sign; he knew that women were as keen as they were inscrutable. The hansom was at last under the ugly framework of the Elevated almost at the South Ferry gate. The tide was coming in strongly, and there was a salt savor in the breeze that blew up from the lower bay. The prisoner relished it as he filled his lungs with the fresh air; and then he asked himself how long it would be before that saline taste would touch his nostrils again. As the cab drew up, the elder of the two men in it laid his hand on the arm of the younger. "I can trust you without the wristlets, can't I?" he asked. The other flushed. "Put them on if you want," he answered, "but you needn't. I'm not going to make a fool of myself again. I've told you I'm going to plead guilty and do everything else I can to get the thing over as soon as possible." The gray-eyed man looked at him firmly. "You're talking sense," he declared. "I'll trust you." As they were about to step out, their horse was somewhat startled by an electric automobile that rolled past clumsily and drew up immediately in front of them. The prisoner stood stock-still, with his foot vainly reaching out for the sidewalk, as he saw the brother of the woman he loved help her out of the vehicle. Then the brother asked a newsboy to point the way to the boat for Governors Island; and she went with him as the urchin eagerly guided them. She did not look around; she never saw the man who loved her; and in a minute she turned the corner and was out of sight. The officer of the law tapped his prisoner on the arm again. "Come on," he said. "What's the matter with you? Have you seen a ghost?" (1899) [Illustration: The Frog that Played the Trombone]