"Devereau'll be taking you East, likely," he had surmised. So waiting not an instant past the hour when he was scheduled to arrive, Blue Jeans had gone, stricken with homesickness at the thought of leaving her, to see Girl o' Mine. It took him twenty miles down the line, but he'd made the appointment with her before he knew Devereau was coming, anyhow, and he'd keep it. Therefore Devereau--but you've guessed it. Devereau is Fox-face of the private car. Devereau is the toad. It was dark at the end of the platform. He could not see that her eyes were dilated. He laid his hand upon her. She couldn't run; her legs felt frozen and useless. "No hurry, dearie," said Devereau. "Let's talk this over. Maybe you'll be glad you missed your train." But Blue Jeans, who had landed lightly on the gravel, saw what Devereau had missed. He saw that Tweed-Suit was afraid--that she was numbed with fear. His single back-hand thrust sent Devereau spinning under a truck. "Your train?" "Yes." "Give me your bag." She obeyed him. They had told her that the train did not wait very long. His hand found her arm, a different touch than Devereau's. "Now run," he ordered. They found most of the vestibules already closed; then one far down still open. So they made it, though he had to toss the bag and fairly lift her on. And it was done so swiftly that it was a full half minute before she caught her breath. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed then. The porter was fussing with her bag, and her fervor overwhelmed him. But her next words were a shock. "I--I want to get off," she blurted. The porter shook his head; he had expected better from her, but all women were riddles. "We's rolling now, ma'am," he answered. "No stop for two hundred miles." That night Cecille Manners--Tweed-Suit will no longer serve--lay in her berth and watched the stars reel by. She had misjudged the west and come away too soon; she knew that now. She put her hand upon her arm. No, that wasn't the way it had felt; it had been strong, infallible. And though he had turned quickly away, after putting her aboard; though she had no way of guessing that he had gone back to find Devereau, she was filled just the same with what remained, for a long time at least, a happy certainty. She'd see him again sometime. She had to! But Devereau had known better than to linger near the baggage truck. So after he had looked beneath it and upon it and all around it and found nobody, Blue Jeans turned and watched the red tail-light of the train disappear. Who shall say where fancy first was bred? Not you--or I--nor even Blue Jeans. For he had not even seen her yet, not with seeing eyes. Here was yet no chapter of his Dream. "A decent girl!" was what he muttered. "A decent girl--I'd swear it!" And he looked again, eagerly, beneath the truck.