A wave of alarm spread over her face.  She clasped her hands.

“Sir, if you are a gentleman—­”

Warrington interrupted her by giving her his card, which was addressed.  She glanced at it through a blur of tears, then sat down.  He shrugged his shoulders slightly; his vanity was touched.  There was, then, a young woman in New York who had not heard of Richard Warrington.

“In asking you to be seated,” he explained, “it was in order that you might wait in comfort while I despatched a messenger to your home.  Doubtless you have a brother, a father, or some male relative, who will come at once to your assistance.”  Which proved that Warrington was prudent.

But instead of brightening as he expected she would, she straightened in her chair, while her eyes widened with horror, as if she saw something frightful in perspective.

What the deuce could be the matter now? he wondered, as he witnessed this inexplicable change.

“No, no!  You must not send a messenger!” she protested.

“But—­”

“No, no!” tears welling into her beautiful eyes again.  They were beautiful, he was forced to admit.

“But,” he persisted, “you wished the waiter to do so.  I do not understand.”  His tone became formal again.

“I have reasons.  Oh, heavens!  I am the most miserable woman in all the world!” She suddenly bowed her head upon her hands and her shoulders rose and fell with silent sobs.

Warrington stared at her, dumfounded.  Now what?  He glanced cautiously around as if in search of some avenue of escape.  The waiter, ever watchful, assumed that he was wanted, and made as though to approach the table; but Warrington warned him off.  All distrust in the girl vanished.  Decidedly she was in great trouble of some sort, and it wasn’t because she could not pay a restaurant check.  Women—­and especially New York women—­do not shed tears when a stranger offers to settle for their dinner checks.

“If you will kindly explain to me what the trouble is,” visibly embarrassed, “perhaps I can help you.  Have you run away from borne?” he asked.

A negative nod.

“Are you married?”

Another negative nod.

Warrington scratched his chin.  “Have you done anything wrong?”

A decided negative shake of the head.  At any other time the gesticulation of the ostrich plume, so close to his face, would have amused him; but there was something eminently pathetic in the diapasm which drifted toward him from the feather.

“Come, come; you may trust me thoroughly.  If you are afraid to return home alone—­”

He was interrupted by an affirmative nod this time.  Possibly, he conjectured, the girl had started out to elope and had fortunately paused at the brink.

“Will it help you at all if I go home with you?” he asked.

His ear caught a muffled “Yes.”

Warrington beckoned to the waiter.