“It’s going to Cortlandt Street—isn’t it?” Suddenly the recollection came to him that it was her cab, and that he had only told the driver to drive fast.
The color left his face as he pressed it to the sleet-shot window. Fitful flickers of light, snow, darkness—that was all he could see.
He turned a haggard countenance on her; he was at her mercy. But there was nothing vindictive in her.
“I also am going to Cortlandt Street; you need not be alarmed,” she said.
The color came back to his cheeks. “I suppose,” he ventured, “that you are trying to catch the Eden Limited, as I am.”
“Yes,” she said, coldly; “my brother—” An expression of utter horror came into her face. “What on earth shall I do?” she cried; “my brother has my ticket and my purse!”
A lunge and a bounce sent them into momentary collision; a flare of light from a ferry lantern flashed in their faces; the cab stopped and a porter jerked open the door, crying:
“Eden Limited? You’d better hurry, lady. They’re closin’ the gates now.”
They sprang out into the storm, she refusing his guiding arm.
“What am I to do?” she said, desperately. “I must go on that train, and I haven’t a penny.”