"I've known her since she was a kid," he was saying to a gang of beery individuals around his door, "and she's been an angel of light to me an' mine. I voted for her—yes, I'm proud to say I did, against the party though it was. And I shall do it again, if she comes back alive. Why, I found a note on my desk this morning when I came in, that my barkeeper put there, saying she'd telephoned for me to come up to the Hall yesterday afternoon. I'd a' gone, only I was out of town and didn't get back here last night at all. Mebbe I'd 've been of use to her some way if I'd been on time. Anyway, I'm going on a still hunt for her tomorrow, all by my lonesome."
"He's sincere enough," remarked Bailey. "Newton's a good-hearted fellow. He always liked Gertrude."
They walked back and soon separated for the night, but neither of them slept, for thinking of those two, so suddenly and mysteriously snatched away.
As John Allingham walked home he lived over again the exciting evening before election. He recalled the moonlit night, the rushing automobile, the ghostly shadows chasing themselves in swift procession ever behind him. He remembered the shock and the overturn and finding himself face to face with Gertrude Van Deusen on the pine-shaded road. He lived again through the rushing ride home, hearing again her silvery voice as she talked, and feeling again the indefinable charm of her presence. He forgot—that she was doing a man's work; he thought only of her femininity and grace and beauty. Then, realizing afresh the calamity that had befallen the city, he groaned aloud.
"Oh, my God!" he muttered. "If she is lost—"
Then he knew, all suddenly and with a great heartache, that he loved a woman—that she was Gertrude Van Deusen—and that she was lost, and that she might be dead, or in great misery and sorrow.
"Good God," he cried, "what can I do to help her?"