She stepped to the curb and looked around inquiringly.  She signalled the cab.  Even as he speeded his car forward, Spike wondered at her indifference to the almost unbearable cold.

“Cab, miss?”

He pulled up short before her.

“Yes.”  Her tone was almost curt.  She had her hand on the door handle before Spike could make a move to alight.  “Drive to 981 East End Avenue.”

Without leaving the driver’s seat, Spike reached for her suit-case and put it beside him.  The woman—­a young woman, Spike reflected—­stepped inside and slammed the door.  Spike fed the gas and started, whirling south on Atlantic Avenue for two blocks, and then turning to his left across the long viaduct which marks the beginning of East End Avenue.

He settled himself for a long and unpleasant drive.  To reach 981 East End Avenue he had to drive nearly five miles straight in the face of the December gale.

And then he found himself wondering about the woman.  Her coat—­a rich fur thing of black and gray—­her handbag, her whole demeanor—­all bespoke affluence.  She had probably been visiting at some little town, and had come down on the accommodation; but no one had been there to meet her.  Anyway, Spike found himself too miserable and too cold to reflect much about his passenger.

He drove into a head wind.  The sleet slapped viciously against his windshield and stuck there.  The patent device he carried for the purpose of clearing rain away refused to work.  Spike shoved his windshield up in order to afford a vision of the icy asphalt ahead.

And then he grew cold in earnest.  He seemed to freeze all the way through.  He drove mechanically, becoming almost numb as the wind, unimpeded now, struck him squarely.  He lost all interest in what he was doing or where he was going.  He called himself a fool for having left the cozy warmth of the White Star Cafe.  He told himself—­

Suddenly he clamped on the brakes.  It was a narrow squeak!  The end of the long freight train rumbled on into the night.  Spike hadn’t seen it; only the racket of the big cars as they crossed East End Avenue, and then the lights on the rear of the caboose, had warned him.

He stopped his car for perhaps fifteen seconds to make sure that the crossing was clear, then started on again, a bit shaken by the narrow escape.  He bumped cautiously across the railroad tracks.

The rest of the journey was a nightmare.  The suburb through which he was passing seemed to have congealed.  Save for the corner lights, there was no sign of life.  The roofs and sidewalks glistened with ice.  Occasionally the car struck a bump and skidded dangerously.  Spike had forgotten his passenger, forgotten the restaurant, the coffee, the weather itself.  He only remembered that he was cold—­almost unbearably cold.

Then he began taking note of the houses.  There was No. 916.  He looked ahead.  These were houses of the poorer type, the homes of laborers situated on the outer edge of the suburb of East End.  Funny—­the handsomely dressed woman—­such a poor neighborhood—­