A Damsel in Distress

He dressed moodily, and left the room to go down to breakfast.

Breakfast would at least alleviate this sinking feeling which was

unmanning him. And he could think more briskly after a cup or two

of coffee.

He opened the door. On a mat outside lay a letter.

The handwriting was feminine. It was also in pencil, and strange to

him. He opened the envelope.

"Dear Mr. Bevan" (it began).

With a sudden leap of the heart he looked at the signature.

The letter was signed "The Girl in the Cab."

"DEAR MR. BEVAN, "I hope you won't think me very rude, running off

without waiting to say good-bye. I had to. I saw Percy

driving up in a cab, and knew that he must have followed us.

He did not see me, so I got away all right. I managed

splendidly about the money, for I remembered that I was

wearing a nice brooch, and stopped on the way to the

station to pawn it.

"Thank you ever so much again for all your wonderful

kindness.

Yours,

THE GIRL IN THE CAB."

George read the note twice on the way down to the breakfast room,

and three times more during the meal; then, having committed its

contents to memory down to the last comma, he gave himself up to

glowing thoughts.

What a girl! He had never in his life before met a woman who could

write a letter without a postscript, and this was but the smallest

of her unusual gifts. The resource of her, to think of pawning that

brooch! The sweetness of her to bother to send him a note! More

than ever before was he convinced that he had met his ideal, and

more than ever before was he determined that a triviality like

being unaware of her name and address should not keep him from her.

It was not as if he had no clue to go upon. He knew that she lived

two hours from London and started home from Waterloo. It narrowed

the thing down absurdly. There were only about three counties in

which she could possibly live; and a man must be a poor fellow who

is incapable of searching through a few small counties for the girl

he loves. Especially a man with luck like his.

Luck is a goddess not to be coerced and forcibly wooed by those who

seek her favours. From such masterful spirits she turns away. But

it happens sometimes that, if we put our hand in hers with the

humble trust of a little child, she will have pity on us, and not

fail us in our hour of need. On George, hopefully watching for

something to turn up, she smiled almost immediately.