The landau was an old-fashioned vehicle built after a commodious pattern by a past generation, and frequently used by Senator Carew on stormy nights, as the two broad seats would accommodate five or six persons by tight squeezing.
Cynthia clutched her wrap with nervous fingers. If the man had inadvertently entered the wrong carriage, the least he could do was to explain the situation and apologize. But suppose he was drunk? The thought was not reassuring.
“Tell me at once who you are,” she demanded imperiously, “or I will stop the carriage.”
At that instant the driver swung his horses abruptly to the left to avoid an excavation in the street made by the sewer department, and, as the wheels skidded on the slippery asphalt, the man swayed sideways, and fell upon Cynthia. A slight scream escaped her, and she pushed him away, only to have the limp figure again slide back upon her.
He was undoubtedly drunk! Thoroughly alarmed she pushed him upright, and struggled vainly to open the carriage door with her disengaged hand.
With a tremendous jolt, which again deposited the helpless figure on her shoulder, the carriage wheels struck the curb as the horses turned into the driveway leading to the porte-cochère of the Carew residence. As the horses came to a standstill the front door was thrown open, and the negro butler hastened down the short flight of steps.
Cynthia, with one desperate effort, flung the man back into his corner and, as the butler turned the stiff handle and opened the door, half jumped, half fell out of the landau.
“A man’s in the carriage, Joshua,” she cried. “See who it is.”
The servant looked at her in surprise, then obediently poked his head inside the open door. Unable to see clearly he drew back and fumbled in his pocket for a matchbox.
“Keep dem hosses still, Hamilton,” he directed, as the coachman leaned down from his seat, and then he pulled out a match. “Miss Cynthia, yo’ bettah go inter der house,” glancing at the young girl’s pale countenance, “I’ll ’ten to dis hyar pusson.”