A taxicab, coincidentally coming from an uptown direction, swung in to the curb.

“Taxi, sir?  Yes, sir?” Then, with an admirable mingling of eagerness to secure the fare and a fear that his confession might cause him the loss of it:  “I’ve another fare in half an hour, sir, but I can get you most anywhere in that time.”

Jimmie Dale’s cigarette was tossed carelessly into the street.

“St. James Club!” he said curtly, and stepped into the cab.

The cab started forward, turned the corner, and headed along Waverly Place toward Broadway.  The chauffeur twisted around in his seat in a matter-of-fact way, as though to ask further directions.

“Have you anything for me?” he inquired casually.

It lay where it always lay, that ring, between the folds of that little white glove in his pocketbook.  Jimmie Dale took it out now, and handed it silently to the chauffeur.

The other’s face changed instantly—­composure was gone, and a quick, strained look was in its place.

“I’m afraid I’ve been watched,” he said tersely.  “Look behind you, will you, and tell me if you see anything?”

Jimmie Dale glanced backward through the little window in the hood.

“There’s another taxi just turned in from Sixth Avenue,” he reported the next instant.

“Keep your eye on it!” instructed the chauffeur shortly.

The speed of the cab increased sensibly.

With a curious tightening of his lips, Jimmie Dale settled himself in his seat so that he could watch the cab behind.  There was trouble coming, intuitively he sensed that; and, he reflected bitterly, he might have known!  It was too marvellous, too wonderful ever to come to pass that this one hour, the thought of which had fired his blood and made him glad beyond any gladness life had ever held for him before, should bring its promised happiness.

“Where’s the cab now?” the chauffeur flung back over his shoulder.

They had passed Fifth Avenue, and were nearing Broadway.

“About the same distance behind,” Jimmie Dale answered.

“That looks bad!” the chauffeur gritted between his teeth.  “We’ll have to make sure.  I’ll run down Lower Broadway.”

“If you think we’re followed,” suggested Jimmie Dale quietly, “why not run uptown and give them the slip somewhere where the traffic is thick?  Lower Broadway at this time of night is as empty and deserted as a country road.”

The chauffeur’s sudden laugh was mirthless.

“My God, you don’t know what you are talking about!” he burst out.  “If they’re following, all hell couldn’t throw them off the track.  And I’ve got to know, I’ve got to be sure before I dare make a move to-night.  I couldn’t tell up in the crowded districts if I was followed, could I?  They won’t come out into the open until their hands are forced.”

The car swerved sharply, rounded the corner, and, speeding up faster and faster, began to tear down Lower Broadway.