“Fare, please,” he said sharply as she came along.

She told him she had paid her fare, but for some reason, perhaps because he was tired at the end of a long run, perhaps because he saw some one else he suspected of being a spotter, he elected not to believe her.

“When did you pay it?” he demanded.

“A block back,” she said, “when all those other people got on.”

“You didn’t pay it to me,” he said truculently.  “Come along!  Pay your fare or get off the car.”

“I paid it once,” she said quietly, “and I’m not going to pay it again.”  With that she started forward toward the door.

He reached out across his little rail and caught her by the arm.  It was a natural act enough—­not polite, to be sure, by no means chivalrous.  Still, he probably put into his grip no more strength than he thought necessary to prevent her walking by into the car.

But it had a surprising result—­a result that normally would not have happened.  Yet, on this particular day, it could not have happened differently.  It had been a red-letter day from the beginning, from no assignable cause an exciting joyous day, and the thrill of the hard fast game, the shower, the rub, the walk, had brought her up to what engineers speak of as a “peak.”

Well, the conductor didn’t know that.  If he had, he would either have let the girl go by, or have put a good deal more force into his attempt to stop her.  And the first thing he knew, he found both his wrists pinned in the grip of her two hands; found himself staring stupidly into a pair of great blazing blue eyes—­it’s a wrathful color, blue, when you light it up—­and listening uncomprehendingly to a voice that said, “Don’t dare touch me like that!”

The episode might have ended right there, for the conductor’s consternation was complete.  If she could have walked straight into the car, he would not have pursued her.  But her note-books were scattered everywhere and had to be gathered up, and there were two or three of the passengers who thought the situation was funny, and laughed, which did not improve the conductor’s temper.

Rose was aware, as she gathered up her note-books, of another hand that was helping her—­a gloved masculine hand.  She took the books it held out to her as she straightened up, and said, “Thank you,” but without looking around for the face that went with it.  The conductor’s intentions were still at the focal point of her mind.  They were, apparently, unaltered.  He had jerked the bell while she was collecting her note-books and the car was grinding down to a stop.

“You pay your fare,” he repeated, “or you get off the car right here.”

“Right here” was in the middle of what looked like a lake, and the rain was pouring down with a roar.

She didn’t hesitate long, but before she could answer a voice spoke—­a voice which, with intuitive certainty, she associated with the gloved hand that had helped gather up her note-books—­a very crisp, finely modulated voice.