The man obligingly looked, but the snow had fallen so thickly, that there was no sign of the lost paper.
“Never mind,” Helen said, “I know the number. It’s 783 West Ninety-fifth Street. I remember, because it’s the same number as some one’s house in Philadelphia.”
“You’re sure, Miss?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And it’s on the third floor. My friend told me so.”
“All right,” and the glass slid down, and the hansom started uptown.
The progress was slow, for the street traffic was enormous at that hour and greatly impeded by the storm beside.
At last they turned into Central Park, and Helen, looking out, thought that now their gait would be a little faster.
But it was decidedly slower, and after a few moments the driver opened the little trap in the roof, and called down.
“Can’t make the Park, Ma’am,—too slippery.”
“What?” asked Helen, not at all comprehending.