Washington, D. C.,
August 12, 1915.

Mr. Del Mar,

What you request is coming.  Answer to sign of the ring.—­Smith.

“Good,” muttered Del Mar as he finished reading.  “Strange, what a little gold will do—­when you know how to dispose of it.”

He smiled cynically to himself at the sentiment.

. . . . . . .

At the little railroad station, they were quite proud of the fact that at least two of the four hacks had been replaced already by taxicabs.

It was, then, with some surprise and not a little open jealousy that they saw a new taxicab drive up and take its stand by the platform.

If the chauffeur, transformed from the lonely fisherman, had expected a cordial reception, he might better have stayed before his hut, for the glances the other drivers gave him were as black and lowering as the clouds he had been looking at.

The new chauffeur got off his seat.  Instead of trying to brazen it out, he walked over to the others who were standing in a group waiting for the approaching train whose whistle had already sounded.

“I’m not going to locate here permanently,” he said, pulling out a roll of bills as he spoke.  “Leave any fare I claim to me,” he added, passing a bill of a good denomination to each of the four jehus.

They looked at him curiously.  But what business of theirs was it?  The money felt good.

“All right, bo,” they agreed.

Thundering down the platform came the afternoon train, a great event in the town life.

As the baggage was being tossed off, the passengers alighted and the five hackmen swarmed at them.

“Keb, sir, kerridge.  Taxi, lady!”

From the Pullman alighted a widow, in deep mourning.  As she got off and moved down the platform, it was apparent that she walked with a pronounced limp.

At the end of the platform, the chauffeurs were still calling, while the newcomer looked over the crowd hastily.  Suddenly he caught sight of the face of the widow.  He stepped forward, as she approached.  The others held back as they had agreed and paid no attention.  It was like forcing a card.

He held the door open and she entered the cab, unsuspecting.  “Mr. Del Mar’s,” she directed, simply.

As the new taxicab driver cranked his engine and climbed into the seat, he was careful to let no action of his, however small, betray the intense satisfaction he felt at the working of his scheme.

He pulled away from the station.  On through the pretty country roads the chauffeur drove the heavily veiled widow until at last they came to Del Mar’s bungalow.

At the gate he stopped and ran around to open the door to assist his fare to alight.

“Wait for me,” she said, without paying him yet.  “I shall not be long and I want to be driven back to the station to catch the four twenty-nine to New York.”