He lifted his hat. Winifred, with a vivid blush, hesitated and stopped.

From the corner Fowle stared at the meeting, and made up his mind that it was really a rendezvous. The patrolman thought so, too, but he had new orders as to these two.

"Pardon me, Miss Bartlett," said Carshaw. "Ah, you see I know your name better than you know mine. Mine is Carshaw--Rex Carshaw, if I may introduce myself. I have this moment tapped at your door, in the hope of seeing you."

"Why so?" asked Winifred.

"Do you wish to forget the incident of yesterday evening?"

"No; hence my stopping to hear what you have to say."

"Well, then, I am here to see to the repairing of my car--not in the hope of seeing _you_, you know"--Carshaw said this with a twinkle in his eye; "though, perhaps, if the truth were known, a little in that hope, too. Then, there at the corner, I find the very man who molested you last night looking at your house, and this spurred me to knock in order to ask a favor. Was I wrong?"

"What favor, sir?"

"That, if ever you have the least cause to be displeased with the conduct of that man in the future, you will consider it as _my_ business, and as an insult offered to _me_--as it will be after the trouble of last night--and that you will let me know of the matter by letter. Here is my address."

Winifred hesitated, then took the proffered card.

"But--" she faltered.

"No; promise me that. It really is my business now, you know."

"I cannot write to you. I--don't--know you."

"Then I shall only have to stand sentinel a certain number of hours every day before your house, to see that all goes well. You can't prevent me doing that, can you? The streets are free to everybody."

"You are only making fun."

"That I am not. See how stern and solemn I look. I shall stand sentinel and gaze up at your window on the chance of seeing your face. Will you show yourself sometimes to comfort me?"

"No."

"I'm sure you will."

"I'd better promise to write the letter--"

"There now, that's a point for me!"

"Oh, don't make me laugh."

"Point number two--for you have been crying, Miss Winifred!"

"I?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to say. Oh, I only wish--"

"How do you know my name?"

"What, the 'Winifred' and the 'Bartlett?' Winifred was always one of my favorite names for a girl, and you look the name all through. Well, Fowle and I were taken to the station-house last night, and in the course of the inquiry I heard your name, of course."

"Did they do anything to you for knocking down Mr. Fowle?"

"No, no. Of course, they didn't do anything to me. In fact, they seemed rather pleased. Were you anxious, then, about me?"

"I was naturally anxious, since it was I who--"

"Ah, now, don't spoil it by giving a reason. You were anxious, that is enough; let me be proud, as a recompense. And now I want to ask you two favors, one of them a great favor. The first is to tell me all you know about this Fowle. And the second--why you look so sad and have been crying. May we walk on a little way together, and then you will tell me?"

They walked on together, and for a longer time than either of them realized. Winifred was rather bewitched. Carshaw was something of a revelation to her in an elusive quality of mind or manner which she in her heart could only call "charming."

She spoke of life at Brown, Son & Brown's, in Greenwich Village. She even revealed that she had been crying because of dark clouds which had gathered round her of a sudden, doubts and fears for which she had no name, and because of a sort of dream the previous night in which she had seen a man's Indian face, and heard a hushed, grim voice say: "She must be taken out of New York--she is the image of her mother."

"Ah! And your mother--who and where is she?" asked Carshaw.

"I don't know. I can't tell. I never knew her," answered Winifred droopingly, with a shake of her head.

"And as to your father?"

"I have no father. I have only my aunt."

"Winifred," said Carshaw solemnly, "will you consider me your friend from this night?"

"You are kind. I trust you," she murmured.

"A friend is a person who acts for another with the same zeal as for himself, and who has the privilege of doing whatever seems good to him for that other. Am I to regard myself as thus privileged?"

Winifred, who had never flirted with any young man in her life, fancied she knew nothing about the rules of the game. She was confused. She veiled her eyes.

"I don't know--perhaps--we shall see," she stammered. Which was not so bad for a novice.

They parted with a warm hand-shake. Ten minutes later Carshaw was in a telephone booth with Clancy's ear at the other end of the wire.

"I have just had a chat with Miss Bartlett," he began.

"Tut, tut! How pa.s.sing strange!" cackled the detective. "The merest chance in the world, I'm sure."

"Yes. The miracle came off, so you're ent.i.tled to your gibe. But I have news for you. It's about a dream and a face."

"Gee! Throw the picture on the screen, Mr. Carshaw."

Then Carshaw spoke, and Clancy listened and bade him work more miracles, even though he might have to report such phenomena to the Psychical Research Society. Next morning Carshaw, a hard man when offended, visited Brown, Son & Brown, who had executed a large rebinding order for his father's library, and Fowle was speedily out of a job. The ex-foreman knew the source of his misfortune, and vowed vengeance.

In the evening, about half past six, Carshaw was back in One Hundred and Twelfth Street. There had been no promise of a meeting between him and Winifred--no promise, but, by those roundabout means by which people in sympathy understand each other, it was perfectly well understood that they would happen to meet again that night.

He waited in the street, but Winifred did not appear. The brown-stone house was in total darkness. An hour pa.s.sed, and the waiting was weary, for it was drizzling. But Carshaw waited, being a persistent young man.

At last, after seven, a pang of fear shot through his breast. He remembered the girl's curious account of the dream-man.

He determined to knock at the door, relying on his wits to invent some excuse if any stranger opened. But to his repeated loud knockings there came no answer. The house seemed abandoned. Winifred was gone! Even a friendly patrolman took pity on his drawn face and drew near.