Suddenly a droshky dashed past, at a pace that appeared even swifter than the breakneck rate at which the Russian droshky driver loves to urge his horses along. It was evidently a private one, drawn by three horses abreast, and I glanced at it idly, as it clattered along with the noise of a fire-engine. Just as it was passing me one of the horses slipped on the cobblestones, and came down with a crash.
There was the usual moment of confusion, as the driver objurgated vociferously, after the manner of his class, and a man jumped out of the vehicle and ran to the horse’s head.
I stood still to watch the little incident; there was no need for my assistance, for the clever little beast had already regained his footing.
Then a startling thing occurred.
A woman’s voice rang out in an agonized cry, in which fear and joy were strangely blended.
“Maurice! Maurice Wynn! Help! Save me!”
On the instant the man sprang back into the droshky, and it was off again on its mad career; but in that instant I had caught a glimpse of a white face, the gleam of bright hair; and knew that it was Anne—Anne herself—who had been so near me, and was now being whirled away.
Something white fluttered on the cobblestones at my feet. I stooped and picked it up. Only a handkerchief, a tiny square of embroidered cambric, crumpled and soiled,—her handkerchief, with her initials “A. P.” in the corner!