“Right!” exclaimed Winthrop.  “Go back and get Beatrice away.”

Peabody looked his relief, but still hesitated.

“I can’t do anything, as you say,” he stammered, “and it’s sure to get in the `extras,’ and they’ll be out in time to lose us thousands of votes, and though no one is to blame, they’re sure to blame me.  I don’t care about myself,” he added eagerly, “but the very morning of election—­half the city has not voted yet—­the Ticket——­”

“Damn the Ticket!” exclaimed Winthrop.  “The man’s dead!”

Peabody, burying his face still deeper in his collar, backed into the crowd.  In the present and past campaigns, from carts and automobiles he had made many speeches in Harlem, and on the West Side, lithographs of his stern, resolute features hung in every delicatessen shop, and that he might be recognized, was extremely likely.

He whispered to Miss Forbes what he had said, and what Winthrop had said.

“But you don’t mean to leave him,” remarked Miss Forbes.

“I must,” returned Peabody.  “I can do nothing for the man, and you know how Tammany will use this—­They’ll have it on the street by ten.  They’ll say I was driving recklessly; without regard for human life.  And, besides, they’re waiting for me at headquarters.  Please hurry.  I am late now.”

Miss Forbes gave an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, I’m not going,” she said.

“You must go! I must go.  You can’t remain here alone.”

Peabody spoke in the quick, assured tone that at the first had convinced Miss Forbes his was a most masterful manner.

“Winthrop, too,” he added, “wants you to go away.”

Miss Forbes made no reply.  But she looked at Peabody inquiringly, steadily, as though she were puzzled as to his identity, as though he had just been introduced to her.  It made him uncomfortable.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

Her answer was a question.

“Are you going?”

“I am!” returned Peabody.  He added sharply:  “I must.”

“Good-by,” said Miss Forbes.

As he ran up the steps to the station of the elevated, it seemed to Peabody that the tone of her “good-by” had been most unpleasant.  It was severe, disapproving.  It had a final, fateful sound.  He was conscious of a feeling of self-dissatisfaction.  In not seeing the political importance of his not being mixed up with this accident, Winthrop had been peculiarly obtuse, and Beatrice, unsympathetic.  Until he had cast his vote for Reform, he felt distinctly ill-used.

For a moment Beatrice Forbes sat in the car motionless, staring unseeingly at the iron steps by which Peabody had disappeared.  For a few moments her brows were tightly drawn.  Then, having apparently quickly arrived at some conclusion, she opened the door of the car and pushed into the crowd.

Winthrop received her most rudely.