"Nine-fifty, sir," said the butler. He wished this excited young man would

go after her. She needed some one. His heart had often stirred against

fate that this pearl among young mistresses should have no intimate friend

or lover now in her loneliness.

"Nine-fifty!" He looked at his watch. No chance! "Broad Street?" he asked

sharply.

"Yes, sir."

Would there be a chance if he had his automobile? Possibly, but hardly

unless the train was late. There would be a trifle more chance of catching

the train at West Philadelphia. O for his automobile! He turned to the

butler in despair.

"Telephone her!" he said. "Stop her if you possibly can on board the

train, and I will try to get there. I must see her. It is important." He

started down the steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. How should he go?

The trolley would be the only available way, and yet the trolley would be

useless; it would take too long. Nevertheless, he sped down toward

Chestnut Street blindly, and now in his despair his new habit came to him.

"O my Father, help me! Help me! Save her for me!"

Up Walnut Street at a breakneck pace came a flaming red automobile,

sounding its taunting menace, "Honk-honk! Honk-honk!" but George Benedict

stopped not for automobiles. Straight into the jaws of death he rushed,

and was saved only by the timely grasp of a policeman, who rolled him over

on the ground. The machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted:

"Conscience alive, George, is that you? What are you trying to do? Say,

but that was a close shave! Where you going in such a hurry, anyway?

Hustle in, and I'll take you there."

The young man sprang into the seat, and gasped: "West Philadelphia

station, Chicago Limited! Hurry! Train leaves Broad Street station at

nine-fifty. Get me there if you can, Billy. I'll be your friend forever."

By this time they were speeding fast. Neither of the two had time to

consider which station was the easier to make; and, as the machine was

headed toward West Philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws or

vainly shouting policemen.

George Benedict sprang from the car before it had stopped, and nearly fell

again. His nerves were not steady from his other fall yet. He tore into

the station and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand of the

ticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, and strode up three

steps at a time. The guard shouted: "Hurry! You may get it; she's just

starting!" and a friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on the

platform of the last car.




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