Far up in the northernmost driveway of the Park, where shrub grown banks and rocky uplands shelter the thoroughfares, Shirley stopped his runaway taxicab.

“Let me have his rubber coat, for I’m going to hide this car out on Long Island.  It’s a long ride, but this man and his machine will disappear as completely as though they had been dumped in the ocean.”

Shirley manacled the prisoner, and gagged him with a tightly knotted handkerchief.  He put the greatcoat of Grimsby’s about Helene’s shoulders, as he brought her to the front seat of the machine.  Then he shut the doors on the prisoner, and drove the automobile out through the Easterly entrance of the park.

“I’m not really brave, Mr. Montague,” said the tired voice at his side.  “I’m so glad I’m sitting by you, instead of back inside.  We will be home soon, won’t we?  I’m so exhausted—­my first day in a strange country, you know.”

Shirley, with the skill of a racing expert, guided the machine through the maze of streets toward the Bridge over the East River.  The touch of that sweet shoulder, as it unconsciously nestled against his own, sent through him a tremor which he had not experienced during the weird silent battle in the dark.

“A strange night, in a strange country.  Are you sorry you tried it?”

With a sidelong glance, he caught the starry light in her eyes as she looked up at him:  there seemed more than the mere reflection of passing street lamps.

“A wonderful night:  I’m glad, so glad, not sorry,” was her dreamy response.  She lapsed into silence as the somnolent drone of the motor and the whirr of the wheels caused the tired eyes to close sleepily.

When he looked at her again, as they were speeding down the bridge Plaza in Long Island City, she was dozing.  The drowsy head touched his shoulder; she seemed like a child, worn out with games, trustingly asleep in the care of a big, strong brother.

CHAPTER XI

A TURN IN THE TRAIL

Helene was still asleep when Shirley stopped the engine of the taxi before a stately Colonial mansion seated back among the pines of a beautiful Long Island estate.  They had been driving for more than an hour.  The girl stirred languorously as he strove to awaken her.  She murmured drowsily: 

“No, Jack, dear.  Emphatically no.  Let’s not talk about it any more, dear boy.”

“Who can Jack be?” and a surprising pang shot through Montague Shirley’s heart.  “Jack, dear!  Well, and what’s it my business.  She is a stranger.  She lives her life and I mine.  But, at any rate, that settles some silly things I’ve been thinking.  I’m less awake than she is.”

This time he tried with better success, and Helene rubbed her eyes, with hands stiffened by the brisk bite of the chill wind.  She gazed at the dimly lit house, at the big figure beside her, as Shirley sprang to the ground—­then remembered it all, and trembled despite herself.