“Why—­why—­” gasped Eleanor, “it’s Joe!”

“And—­yes, thank God, it’s Har—­Mr. Windomshire,” almost shrieked Anne.

Then they turned and looked at each other in confusion.  Neither had the courage to carry out the desire to fly to the arms of the man she longed to see more than all else in the world.  They felt themselves to be caught red-handed.

CHAPTER IV

MRS. VAN TRUDER INTRUDES

None but the most eager, loving eyes could possibly have recognised the newcomers.  It is not unlikely that the remaining passengers mistook them for tramps.  The rivals, morbidly suspicious of each other, taciturn to the point of unfriendliness, had indeed chartered a locomotive—­not jointly by intention, but because of provoking necessity.  There was but one engine to be had.  It is safe to say that while they travelled many sore and turbulent miles in close proximity to each other, neither felt called upon to offer or to demand an explanation.

Five hours in the tender of an engine had done much to reduce them to the level of the men in the cab, so far as personal appearance was concerned.  They were still wearing their raincoats, much crumpled and discoloured; their faces were covered with coal dust; they were wet, bedraggled, and humble to the last degree.  The American, naturally, was the one who clung to his suitcase; he had foreseen the need for a change of linen.  They came toward the train with hesitating, uncertain steps.  If their souls were gladdened by the sight of the two young women, general appearances failed to make record of it.  It was noted by those who watched their approach that once both of them stopped short and seemed to waver in their determination to advance.  That was when each became suddenly aware of the presence of an unexpected girl.  Naturally, the Englishman was seriously staggered.  The unexplained Eleanor appeared before his very eyes as an accusing nemesis; it is no wonder that his jaw dropped and his befuddled brain took to whirling.

The girls, less regardful of appearances, climbed down from the platform and started forward to meet their knights-errant.  The reader may readily appreciate the feelings of the quartette.  Not one of them knew just precisely how much or how little the others knew; they were precariously near to being lost in the labyrinth.  Something intangible but regular urged Windomshire to be politic; he advanced to meet Eleanor as if it were her due.  Anne fell back, perplexed and hurt.

“Hang it all,” thought Joe, rage in his heart, “he beat me to her, after all.  He’ll be enough of a damned ass to try to kiss her before all these people, too.”  Whereupon, he closed his eyes tightly.  When he opened them, Miss Courtenay was walking beside him and asking questions about the weather.  Her cheeks were very pink.  Windomshire had awkwardly clasped the hand of Miss Thursdale, muttering something not quite intelligible, even to himself.  Eleanor was replying with equal blitheness.