“Good!  I want you to put on your things at once, and follow Miss Lang,” he directed briefly.  “I do not think she’s sick, but as she was talking to me, I noticed she grew suddenly quite pale, and seemed troubled and anxious.  Waste no time!  Go at once!”

The only answer was a sharp click over the wire, as Mrs. Slawson snapped the receiver into its crotch.

But though Claire was not five minutes in advance of her, Martha was unable to make up the distance between them, and by the time she had mounted the stairs leading to the Elevated, and stood panting for breath on the platform, the train she had hoped to catch was to be seen disappearing around the curve at Fifty-third Street.

All the way uptown she speculated as to the why and wherefore of Mr. Ronald’s immediate concern about Claire.

“It’s kinder previous, his gettin’ so stirred up over her at this stage o’ the game,” she pondered.  “It ain’t natural, or it ain’t lucky.  I’d much liefer have it go slower, an’ be more thora.  A thing like this affair I’m tryin’ to menoover, is like some o’ the things you cook.  You want to leave ’em get good an’ het-up before the stirrin’ begins.  If they’re stirred up too soon, they’re ap’ to cruddle on you, an’ never get that nice, smooth, thick, gooey look you like to see in rich custuds, same as love-affairs.  I hope she didn’t go an’ have a scare on, an’ give ’em to think she ain’t healthy.  She’s as sound as a nut, but if Mis’ Sherman once is fixed with the notion she’s subjeck to faint-spells, nothin’ on earth will change her mind, an’ then it’ll be nit, not, nohow for Martha’s little scheme.  I must caution Miss Claire about showin’ the white feather.  No matter how weak-kneed she feels, she’s just got to buck up an’ ack like she’s a soldier.  That’s how—­”

Martha had reached her own street, and was turning the corner, when she stopped with a sensation as of a quick, fierce clutching at her heart.  Evidently there had been some sort of accident, for a great crowd was gathered on the sidewalk, and beside the gutter-curbstone, just ahead of her, stood waiting an ambulance.  Her healthy, normal mind did not easily jump at tragic conclusions.  She did not, as a general thing, fear the worst, did not even accept it when it came, but now, somehow, a close association of ideas suggested Claire in an instant, and before ever she had stirred a step, she saw in her mind’s eye the delicate little form she loved, lying injured, maybe mangled, stretched out upon the asphalt, in the midst of the curious throng.

She hurried, hurried faster than any of the others who were also hurrying, and pushed her way on through the press to the very edge of the crowd.  A crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for a second struggling to advance.

“It’s a child!—­A little girl—­run over by an automobile!  O God help the poor mother!” the stranger sobbed hysterically.