The speaking was to be from the steps of the Sub-treasury.  We made a détour, and came up Broad Street, stopping a little way from the corner.  These meetings had been held all through the summer and fall, so that people had learned to expect them; although it lacked some minutes of noon, there was already a crowd gathered.  A group of men stood upon the broad steps, one with a red banner and several others with armfuls of pamphlets and books.  With them was our friend, who looked at us and smiled, but gave no other sign of recognition.

Sylvia pushed back the collar of her sable coat, and sat erect in her shining blue velvet, her eyes and her golden hair shining beneath the small brim of a soft velvet hat.  As she gazed eagerly at the busy throngs of men hurrying about this busy corner, she whispered to me:  “I haven’t been so excited since my début party!”

The crowd increased until it was difficult to get through Wall Street.  The bell of Old Trinity was tolling the hour of noon, and the meeting was about to begin, when suddenly I heard an exclamation from Sylvia, and turning, saw a well-dressed man pushing his way from the office of Morgan and Company towards us.  Sylvia clutched my hand where it lay on the seat of the car, and half gasped:  “My husband!”

17.  Of course I had been anxious to see Douglas van Tuiver.  I had heard Claire Lepage’s account of him, and Sylvia’s, also I had seen pictures of him in the newspapers, and had studied them with some care, trying to imagine what sort of personage he might be.  I knew that he was twenty-four, but the man who came towards us I would have taken to be forty.  His face was sombre, with large features and strongly marked lines about the mouth; he was tall and thin, and moved with decision, betraying no emotion even in this moment of surprise.  “What are you doing here?” were his first words.

For my part, I was badly “rattled”; I knew by the clutch of Sylvia’s hand that she was too.  But here I got a lesson in the nature of “social training.”  Some of the bright colour had faded from her face, but she spoke with the utmost coolness, the words coming naturally and simply:  “We can’t get through the crowd.”  And at the same time she looked about her, as much as to say:  “You can see for yourself.” (One of the maxims of Lady Dee had set forth that a lady never told a lie if she could avoid it.)

Sylvia’s husband looked about, saying:  “Why don’t you call an officer?” He started to follow his own suggestion, and I thought then that my friend would miss her meeting.  But she had more nerve than I imagined.

“No,” she said.  “Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Still there was no emotion in the cold, grey eyes.

“Because—­I think there’s something going on.”

“What of that?”

“I’m not in a hurry, and I’d like to see.”

He stood for a moment looking at the crowd.  Mrs. Frothingham had come forward, evidently intending to speak.  “What is this, Ferris?” he demanded of the chauffeur.