“Miss Leslie,” he began hurriedly, “I have but a moment to spare.  I want to say something in that moment.  Will you be my wife?  I haven’t had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you.  Talk quick, please—­those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.”

“Oh, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the young lady.  She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.

“Don’t you understand?” said Maxwell, restively.  “I want you to marry me.  I love you, Miss Leslie.  I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit.  They’re calling me for the ’phone now.  Tell ’em to wait a minute, Pitcher.  Won’t you, Miss Leslie?”

The stenographer acted very queerly.  At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’s neck.

“I know now,” she said, softly.  “It’s this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time.  I was frightened at first.  Don’t you remember, Harvey?  We were married last evening at 8 o’clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.”

AFTER TWENTY YEARS

The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively.  The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few.  The time was barely 10 o’clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh de-peopled the streets.

Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace.  The vicinity was one that kept early hours.  Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed.

When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk.  In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth.  As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke up quickly.

“It’s all right, officer,” he said, reassuringly.  “I’m just waiting for a friend.  It’s an appointment made twenty years ago.  Sounds a little funny to you, doesn’t it?  Well, I’ll explain if you’d like to make certain it’s all straight.  About that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands—­’Big Joe’ Brady’s restaurant.”

“Until five years ago,” said the policeman.  “It was torn down then.”

The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar.  The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow.  His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.