“But I can’t move on,” she said pathetically.

“Couldn’t you work my van, Miss?  It’s quite simple.”

She gave it a swift examination.  “Yes,” said she.  “It’s almost like my own car.”

“Then I’ll lead, and you follow, Miss.”

“But I can’t—­I don’t know who—­I don’t want your van.  Where shall we—­”

“Go?” he supplied.  “To jail, I judge, unless we go somewhere else and do it now.  Come on!  We’re off!”

Overborne by his insistence and further influenced by the scowl of the approaching officer, she took the wheel.  At the close of some involved but triumphant maneuverings the exchanged vans removed themselves from the path of progress, headed eastward to Fourth Avenue and bore downtownward.  Piloting a strange machine through rush traffic kept the girl in the trailer too busy for speculation, until, in the recesses of a side street, her leader stopped and she followed suit.  Mr. Dyke’s engaging and confident face appeared below her.

“Within,” he stated, pointing to a quaint Gothic doorway, “they dispense the succulent pig’s foot and the innocuous and unconvincing near-but-not-very-beer.  It is also possible to get something to eat and drink.  May I help you down, Miss?”

“No,” said the girl dolefully.  “I want to go home.”

“But on your own showing, you haven’t any home.”

“I’ve got to find one.  Immediately.”

“You’ll need help, Miss.  It’ll take some finding.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me Miss,” she said with evidences of petulance.

“Have it your own way, Lady.  We strive to please, as R.L.  Stevenson says.  Or is it R.H.  Macy?  Anyway, a little bite of luncheon Lady, while we discuss the housing problem—­”

“Why are you calling me Lady, now?”

He shook a discouraged head.  “You seem very hard to please, Sister.  I’ve tried you with Miss and I’ve tried you with Lady—­”

“Are you a gentleman or are you a—­a—­”

“Don’t say it, Duchess.  Don’t!  Remember what Tennyson says:  ’One hasty line may blast a budding hope.’  Or was it Burleson?  When you deny to the companion of your wanderings the privilege of knowing your name, what can he do but fall back for guidance upon that infallible chapter in the Gents’ Handbook of Classy Behavior, entitled, ’From Introduction’s Uncertainties to Friendship’s Fascinations’?”

“We haven’t even been introduced,” she pointed out.

“Pardon me.  We have.  By the greatest of all Masters of Ceremonies, Old Man Chance.  Heaven knows what it may lead to,” he added piously.  “Now, Miss—­or Lady—­or Sister, as the case may be; or even Sis (I believe that form is given in the Gents’ Handbook), if you will put your lily hand in mine—­”

“Wait.  Promise me not to call me any of those awful things during luncheon, and afterward I may tell you my name.  It depends.”

“A test!  I’m on.  We’re off.”