When the taxi appeared, Dennis flung himself into the cab and thrust a bill at the driver with orders to make the station regardless of traffic officers. He saw quite clearly, now, that Ericksen had planned this attempted murder; there was no proof of it, but he needed none. What was the reason behind it? This question maddened Dennis. Was Florence being abducted? Such a thing seemed impossible and incredible, outside a movie scenario.
When Dennis reached the station he had about three minutes left. He took the gate at a rush, showing his tickets hurriedly, and swung aboard the nearest open vestibule of the train just as the porters were picking up their stools.
He found that the compartment-car was up ahead. Since he had his own tickets, with that of Florence, she would certainly not be in their compartment, but probably in one of the Pullmans. So he started through the train, scrutinising each seat as he came to it.
Two cars ahead, he came suddenly upon Florence, who was alone. She sprang up with a glad cry, and Dennis saw that she had been weeping.
"Oh—I knew you'd make it, after all, Tom!" she broke out, her hands going to his.
Dennis stooped and touched her lips with his.
"All right now, old girl," he said, not bothering for an explanation of her words. "Where's Ericksen?"
"He just went forward to arrange about our tickets, he said."
Dennis beckoned to the porter who was approaching. He gave the darky the number of his own compartment and ordered Florence's grips taken there; then he turned to his wife.
"Now, Mrs. Dennis," he said, chuckling as she flushed at the name, "you go to that compartment and wait until I show up, will you please? I have a little business with Mr. Ericksen—and it won't wait a minute!"