One came, running; a tall well-built youth, with an expression on his face of cool, cynical courage and good humor.
"Miss Ferris," said Blizzard, "this young fellow will ride in with you if you don't mind. You can drop him when you get out of the East Side, and reach your own part of the city. He will see that no harm comes to you. If you ask him questions he will answer them. Otherwise he will not speak unless you wish."
The youth grinned a little sheepishly, and Barbara made room for him on the seat beside her.
"He will answer for your safety," continued the legless man, "with his ears. Where to?"
She gave the number of the house at which she was to dine, and the legless man repeated it to the driver.
"Good-night, Mr. Blizzard, and thank you."
"Good-night, Miss Ferris, and welcome."
The legless man watched the taxicab until it had rounded the corner of Marrow Lane. Then he looked upward at the stars for a while. Then he swung slowly and wearily back into his rookery, and having extinguished the light, sat for a long time in the dark.
What was it that had come over the man to let his victim escape when she was so mercilessly in his power? Ask the stars to which he turned. Ask the darkness in which he sits, alone, thinking. Better, perhaps, ask the man's warped and tormented soul.
It seems that while he sat in his office waiting for her, a champion rose up to defend her, a champion in his own heart. A champion who made such headway against the brute's lawless and beastly intention as to overthrow it.