The chauffeur turned his head and replied in a surly tone: “We’ve broken down, ma’m. You can’t go no farther in this cab. I’ll have to get another to tow us back to the garage.”
“Oh,” she cried in dismay, “how unfortunate! What am I to do?”
“Guess you’ll have to get out ’n’ walk back to Central Park West,” was the answer. “You c’n get a car there to C’lumbus Circle. You’ll find a-plenty taxis down there.”
“You’re quite sure—” she began to protest.
“Ah, they ain’t no chanst of this car going another foot under its own power—not until it’s been a week ’r two in hospital. The only thing for you to do ’s to hoof it, like I said.”
“That’s dead right,” averred the other man. He was standing beside the body of the cab and now unlatched the door and held it open for her. “You might as well get down, if you’re in any great hurry, ma’m.”
Eleanor rose, eyeing the man distrustfully. His accent wasn’t that of the kind of man who is accustomed to saying “ma’m.” His back was toward the nearest lamp post, his face in shadow. She gained no more than a dim impression of a short, slender figure masked in a grey duster buttoned to the throat, and, above it, a face rendered indefinite by a short, pointed beard and a grey motor-cap pulled well down over the eyes....
But there was nothing to do but accept the situation. An accident was an accident—unpleasant but irreparable. There was no alternative; she could do nothing but adopt the chauffeur’s suggestion. She stepped out, turning back to get her bandbox.
“Beg pardon, ma’m. I’ll get that for you.”
The man by the door interposed an arm between Eleanor and the bandbox.