Naturally independent, this girl of the ranges was not likely to ask a stranger for help. She could find her own way.
She smiled—yet it was a rather wry smile—when she thought of how Dud Stone had told her she would be as much of a tenderfoot in New York as he had been on the plains.
“It’s a fact,” she thought. “But, if they didn’t get my message, I reckon I can find the house, just the same.”
Having been so much in Denver she knew a good deal about city ways. She did not linger about the station long.
Outside there was a row of taxicabs and cabmen. There was an officer, too; but he was engaged at the moment in helping a fussy old lady get seven parcels, a hat box, and a dog basket into a cab.
So Helen walked down the row of waiting taxicabs. At the end cab the chauffeur on the seat turned around and beckoned.
“Cab, Miss? Take you anywhere you say.”
“You know where this number on Madison Street is, of course?” she said, showing a card with the address on it.
“Sure, Miss. Jump right in.”
“How much will it be?”