“Could you not be so kind as to help us?  It is Mees Ayrshire, the singer.  The juice is gone out and we cannot move.  We must get to the station.  Mademoiselle cannot miss the train; she sings tomorrow night in New York.  It is very important.  Could you not take us to the station at East Liberty?”

McKann opened the door.  “That’s all right, but you’ll have to hurry.  It’s eleven-ten now.  You’ve only got fifteen minutes to make the train.  Tell her to come along.”

The maid drew back and looked up at him in amazement.  “But, the hand-luggage to carry, and Mademoiselle to walk!  The street is like glass!”

McKann threw away his cigar and followed her.  He stood silent by the door of the derelict, while the maid explained that she had found help.  The driver had gone off somewhere to telephone for a car.  Miss Ayrshire seemed not at all apprehensive; she had not doubted that a rescuer would be forthcoming.  She moved deliberately; out of a whirl of skirts she thrust one fur-topped shoe—­McKann saw the flash of the gold stocking above it—­and alighted.

“So kind of you!  So fortunate for us!” she murmured.  One hand she placed upon his sleeve, and in the other she carried an armful of roses that had been sent up to the concert stage.  The petals showered upon the sooty, sleety pavement as she picked her way along.  They would be lying there tomorrow morning, and the children in those houses would wonder if there had been a funeral.  The maid followed with two leather bags.  As soon as he had lifted Kitty into his cab she exclaimed: 

“My jewel-case!  I have forgotten it.  It is on the back seat, please.  I am so careless!”

He dashed back, ran his hand along the cushions, and discovered a small leather bag.  When he returned he found the maid and the luggage bestowed on the front seat, and a place left for him on the back seat beside Kitty and her flowers.

“Shall we be taking you far out of your way?” she asked sweetly.  “I haven’t an idea where the station is.  I’m not even sure about the name.  Celine thinks it is East Liberty, but I think it is West Liberty.  An odd name, anyway.  It is a Bohemian quarter, perhaps?  A district where the law relaxes a trifle?”

McKann replied grimly that he didn’t think the name referred to that kind of liberty.

“So much the better,” sighed Kitty.  “I am a Californian; that’s the only part of America I know very well, and out there, when we called a place Liberty Hill or Liberty Hollow—­well, we meant it.  You will excuse me if I’m uncommunicative, won’t you?  I must not talk in this raw air.  My throat is sensitive after a long program.”  She lay back in her corner and closed her eyes.

When the cab rolled down the incline at East Liberty station, the New York express was whistling in.  A porter opened the door.  McKann sprang out, gave him a claim check and his Pullman ticket, and told him to get his bag at the check-stand and rush it on that train.