The young woman looked at him with widely blazing eyes. She believed him, she hardly knew why. She had alighted from the hansom.
"I've been driving up and down Fifth Avenue all morning!" she said. "I felt sure I could find it that way. It isn't mine. It was only left in my charge. I was afraid that something might happen. I didn't want to have it in the first place! I knew it would cause me endless trouble. I don't know what to do with it now."
"I should be gratified," said Garrison, "if you will state that you do not consider me guilty of a theft so stupid as this would appear."
"I didn't think you were the man," she answered. "A chauffeur my cousin discharged undoubtedly stole it. Policemen are after him now, with the man who runs the garage. They went to Long Island City, or somewhere, to find him, this morning. Perhaps he saw them on the bridge."
She was regaining color. She was a very fine-looking young woman, despite the expression of worry on her face. She was looking Garrison over in a less excited manner—and he knew she held no thought of guilt against him.
"Let me suggest that you dismiss your cab and permit me to take you at once to your garage," he said, adding to the man on the box: "Cabby, how much is your bill?"
"Five dollars," said the man, adding substantially to his charge.
"Take ten and get out!" said Garrison, handing him a bill.
"Oh, but please——" started the pretty young woman.
Garrison interrupted.