But the time passed at last, and the great thing came up to her pier, and opened her jaws and disgorged her living freight down a steep plank on to dry earth again; and the Duke, with a final look at the stream of descending passengers, forced his way ashore, and jumped into the first cab he saw.
"Drive to the nearest Elevated station," he shouted.
"Which avenue?" inquired the driver with that placidity which cabmen assume whenever one is in a hurry.
"Oh, any avenue—damn the avenue—Sixth Avenue of course!" cried the Duke in a stew.
"Very good, sir—Sixth Avenue Elevated, did you say?" and he deliberately closed the door and mounted to his box.
"What shall I tell her—what shall I say?" were the questions that repeated themselves with stunning force in his ear as he rattled through the streets, and slid over the smooth Elevated Road, swiftly towards his hotel. He had still some few hundred yards to walk from the station when he got out. His courage failed him, and he walked slowly, with bent head and heavy heart, the bearer of bad news.
Leisurely he climbed the steps, and the few stairs to his room. There stood Lady Victoria under the gaslight, by the fire, looking at the clock.
"At last," she cried, "how did you miss him?"
"Whom?" asked her brother dejectedly.
"Why, Claudius, of course!"