“How much will it cost?” asked Marion, anxiously.
The messenger consulted his table of rates for a moment before answering.
“Two dollars,” he said, finally; “but of course your uncle will pay it. Mighty queer of him not to meet you when he knew you were a stranger in the city.”
“But you see he doesn’t know me!” said Marion, quickly. “He married my mother’s sister Susan, but we girls have never seen him. I—I was obliged to come here on business, so I had to write to him. There was no one else, and he wrote back that he would meet me.”
“Perhaps he did and didn’t know you,” said the messenger more cheerfully; “but anyway. I’ll get you a carriage and send you to him.
“Here!” he called to a cabman standing a short distance away. “Take this lady’s trunk check and here’s the address she’s to go to.” He turned away with the air of one who had done his duty.
The man who had been watching Marion moved a little nearer. When the cabman came up he heard the conversation between them.
After the “cabby” had placed Marion in his vehicle, he started back into the depot to find her trunk, and as she leaned from the cab window and looked after him Marion saw that he was joined by the stranger.
She could not hear what they said, but she saw the cabman shake his head repeatedly while the man wrote something on a piece of paper without once stopping talking.
Finally she saw a bill change hands between them. The cabman had evidently relented, for he pocketed not only the money but the paper the stranger had written.