George D'Orsey lived in the far-off hamlet of Hoboken. He returned to his home. In three months he was to wed Imogene O'Sullivan. Benton O'Sullivan had a fit when it was first mentioned to him. At last he gave his sullen consent.
“I had planned a title for you, Imogene.” That was all he said.
Three months have elapsed. It was dark when the ferryboat came to a panting pause in its slip. George D'Orsey picked his way through the crowd with quick, nervous steps. It was to be his wedding-night. He wondered if Imogene would meet him at the ferry. At that moment he beheld her dear form walking just ahead.
“To-night, dearest, you are mine forever!” whispered George D'Orsey tenderly, seizing the sweet young creature by her arm.
The shrieks which emanated from the young woman could have defied the best efforts of a steam siren.
It was not Imogene O'Sullivan!
The police bore away George D'Orsey. They turned a deaf ear to his explanations.
“You make me weary!” remarked the brutal turnkey, to whom George D'Orsey told his tale.
The cell door slammed; the lock clanked; the cruel key grated as it turned. George D'Orsey was a prisoner. The charge the blotter bore against him was: “Insulting women on the street.”
When George D'Orsey was once more alone, he cursed his fate as if his heart would break. At last he was calm.