“She was a good gyurl, as nate an’ swate as a picter, whin she lift the cornel’s lady’s sarvice, an’ wint an’ tuk up wid Carruthers, a foine man an’ a sponsible, not a bit loike the common Scotch.  Carruthers and her, they axed me wud Oi go an’ pay thim a visit, an’ say to the comfort av her young lady on the way.”

“What young lady?” asked Coristine, and immediately repented the question.

“Miss Jewplesshy, to be sure, the cornel’s darter, and an illigant wan she is, av she has to make her livin’ by the wroitin’.”

At this juncture, the lawyer, with lively satisfaction, hailed the arrival of Frank, who came straight towards him.

“Are you Mr. Coristine, the lawyer?” he half whispered.  “Yes; that’s my name,” his victim replied, thinking that Wilkinson had sent him a message.

“Well, there’s a lady in the rear car wanted to know, and I said I’d find out.”

“Fwhat’s that you’ll be sayin’ av a lady in the rare car, my lad?” questioned the old soldier, who had overheard part of the conversation.

“It’s the tall girl in the travelling duster and the blue ribbons that wants to know if Mr. Coristine is here.”

“Fwhat? my own dare young mishtress, Miss Ceshile Jewplesshy; shure it’s her that do have the blue ribbins, an’ the dushter.  Do yeez know that swate young crathur, Sor?”

“I do not,” replied Coristine abruptly, and added, sotto voce, “thank goodness!” Then he relit his pipe, and buried his head in the Puck book, from the contemplation of which the Irish veteran was too polite to seek to withdraw his attention.  In a few minutes, the door opened and closed with a slam, and Wilkinson, pale and trembling, stood before him.

“Eugene, my dear friend,” he stammered, “I’ll never forgive myself for leading you and me into a trap, a confounded, diabolical, deep-laid trap, sir, a gin, a snare, a woman’s wile.  Let us get off anywhere, at Aurora, Newmarket, Holland Landing, Scanlans, anywhere to escape these harpies.”

“What’s the matter, old man?” enquired Coristine, with a poor attempt at calmness.

“Matter!” replied Wilkinson, “it’s this matter, that they have found us out, and the girl with the cream coloured ribbons and crimson wrapper has asked that villainous news-agent if my name is not Wilkinson, and if I don’t teach in the Sacheverell Street School.  The rascal says her name is Miss Marjorie Carmichael, the daughter of old Dr. Carmichael, that was member for Vaughan, and that her friend, the long girl with the blue ribbons, knows you.  O, my dear friend, this is awful.  Better be back in Toronto than shut up in a railway car with two unblushing women.”

“Stay here,” said Coristine, making way for his friend, “they’ll never dare come into this car after us.”  Yet his eye followed the retreating form of the South American warrior with apprehension.  What if he should bring his ‘dare young misthress’ and her friend into the atmosphere of stale tobacco after their lawful game?  Wilkinson sat down despairingly and coughed.  “I feel very like the least little nip,” he said faintly, “but it’s in my knapsack, and I will not enter that car of foul conspiracy again for all the knapsacks and flasks in the world.”