By-and-by he stepped out of the boarding-house into the storm. Clouds of moist feathery particles surged over him, and crept inside his rusty velvet collar. Suddenly he discovered a handsome coupé standing in front. The footman was walking up and down while the driver beat his hands across his breast. Williard did not understand what this elegant equipage was doing in such a street. Even as he cogitated, the footman descried him and approached.
"Beg pardon, sir; Mr. Williard?" he inquired.
"Yes, I am Mr. Williard," was the wondering answer.
"Then we are just in time, sir!" The footman ran to the coupé and opened the door respectfully.
"You have made a mistake, my man," said Williard. "I did not order—"
"We are from Miss Wycklift's," said the footman.
Her carriage! And she had sent it to his boarding-house for fear he might slip past!
"Are you certain?" he asked, still in doubt.
"If you are Mr. Williard there isn't a particle of doubt, sir." The tone was perfectly respectful, and did more to determine Williard than anything else.
"Very well," he said.