He stood quite still, stupefied with amazement too great for words, and a white, awful horror broke over his face and shone in his eyes.
"Tell me about him again!" he cried, hoarsely. "What was he like—this man who took Dorothy away?" And as he listened to the description his face grew stormy with terrible wrath, for it tallied exactly with that of the man who had put Dorothy in the cab and rode away with her.
Like a lightning's flash Jack tore down to the Staten Island wharf, and was just in time to catch the out-going boat. He would surprise them, he told himself, and tear little Dorothy, his promised bride, from his rival's arms, or die in the attempt.
All the way down the bay Jack paced the deck in a tumult of fury that increased with every breath he drew.
The half hour that it took to reach his destination seemed as endless as the pangs of purgatory to lost souls. He never knew how the journey was made, or how he reached the island—flaming with lights on this gala night, and gorgeous with flags and gilded banners.
There were few passengers going down to Staten Island. The steamer had come to take the revellers back to the city, and the gang-plank was no sooner lowered than the crowd rushed aboard with happy laughter and gay repartee. Among the first to gain a foothold on the stairway that led to the upper deck were Harry Langdon and Dorothy; and here, face to face, they met—Jack!
"Unhand that young girl!" he cried, sternly, facing Langdon. "You have no right to be here with her."
Langdon started back, and glanced in haughty amazement at the broad-shouldered, fair-haired young man confronting him.
But without waiting for him to answer, Jack turned to Dorothy, holding out his hands to her, saying huskily:
"Leave him, little one, and come with me."