"In a way. I say, officer, be a good fellow. Keep your eye peeled for a taxi as you go along and send it up for us. She had one ordered, but—well, you can see for yourself. It isn't here."
"That's as plain as the nose on your face. I guess I'll just step up to the door and see if it's all right. Stay where you are. Looks queer to me."
"Oh, it isn't necessary to inquire, officer," broke in Jane nervously. "You have my word for it that it's all right."
"Oh, I have, have I? Fine! And what if them bags and things is filled with silver and God knows what? You don't—"
"Go ahead and inquire," said Trotter, pressing her arm encouragingly. "Ask the butler if he didn't call a cab for Miss Emsdale,—and also ask him why in thunder it isn't here."
The patrolman hesitated. "Who are you," he asked, stepping a little closer to Trotter.
"I am this young lady's fiancé," said Trotter, with dignity.
"Her what?"
"Her steady," said Trotter.
The policeman laughed,—good-naturedly, to their relief.
"Oh, well, that being the case," said he, and started away. "Excuse me for buttin' in."
"Sure," said Trotter amiably. "If you see a taxi, old man."
"Leave it to me," came back from the fog.
Jane nestled close to her tall young man. His arm was about her.
