A few minutes later she passed him in the rotunda. For an instant their eyes met. There was a deep, searching expression in hers. Suddenly a deep flush covered her smooth cheek and her eyes fell. She hurried past, and he, stock-still with wonder and joy over this astounding exposition of confusion on her part, failed utterly to pursue an advantage that would have been seized upon with alacrity by the atavistic No. 12. He allowed her to escape!
Aroused to action too late, he bolted after her, only to see her enter a waiting taxi-cab and—yes, she did look back over her shoulder. She knew he would follow! He raised his hat, and he was sure that she smiled—faintly, it is true, but still she smiled. If he hoped that she would condescend to alter her course, he was doomed to disappointment. The driver obeyed his original instructions and shot off in the direction of Lafayette Street.
The memory of her tribute—a blush and a fleeting smile—was to linger with Sampson for many a weary, watchful day.
The taxi-cab—a noisy, ungentle abomination—was whirling her corporeal loveliness out of his reach and vision with exasperating swiftness, leaving him high and dry in an endless, barren desert. His heart gave a tremendous jump when a traffic policeman stopped the car at the corner above. He set forth as fast as his long legs could carry him with dignity, hoping and praying that the officer would be as slow and as stubborn about—But she must have looked into the fellow's eyes and smiled, for, with surprising amiability, he signified that she was to proceed. Apparently he was too dazzled to reprimand or caution the driver, for the taxi went forward at an increased speed.
Some one touched Sampson's elbow. He withdrew his gaze from the vanishing taxi-cab and allowed it to rest in sheer amazement upon the bleak countenance of No. 7.
“She's going away,” said No. 7 in sepulchral tones.
“Evidently,” said Sampson. “Exceeding the speed limit while she is about it, too.”