His fingers caressed her warm cheek as he adjusted the collar of the long seacoat about her throat and chin. Her eyes were starry bright, her red lips were parted.
"My Princess!" he whispered tenderly. "My Princess!"
"My Prince," she said so softly that the words barely reached his ears. "We have proved that Love is the king. He rules us all. He laughs at locksmiths—and fathers—but he does not laugh at sweethearts. Come, I am ready."
He handed her into the cab a moment later, and drew the long deep breath of one who goes down into deep water. Then he followed after her. The attendant closed the door.
"Where to, sir?" called Hobbs from the driver's seat.
He received no answer, yet cracked his whip gaily over the horses' backs and drove out into the slanting rain.
Hobbs was a dependable fellow. He drove the full length of the street twice, passing the Inn of the Stars both times at a lively clip, and might have gone on forever in his shuttlecock enterprise, had not the excited voice of a woman hailed him from the sidewalk.
"Stop! Attendez! You! Man!"
He pulled up with a jerk. The dripping figure of Marie ran up from behind.
"My mistress? Where is she?" panted the girl.