before his superior later on with his luckless tale, facing a
thirty-days' lay-off at the lowest. "By the way, I want to write a short
note." He secured envelope, paper and stamp from the bar and hastily
wrote a brief letter. The inscription on the outside of the envelope was
"George Friend,--Police Station, New York," and there were three
one-hundred-dollar bills inclosed with the note of explanation. "I'll
mail it later," he said. "Come on."

They went forth into the rain, Hugh's blood leaping with excitement, the
plain-clothes man shivering as if he were congealing. Mr. Ridgeway
dashed across the pavement and peered into the cab. Grace was not there,
just as he had hoped and expected.

"The lady's in the drug-store below, sir," announced the cabman.

"Wait here" called Hugh to the plain-clothes man. "I'm afraid she's ill.
She's gone to the drug-store." He hurried toward the drug-store as the
officer began to question the driver. A second later Mr. Ridgeway turned
the corner and was off like the wind toward Sixth Avenue. Turning into
an alley, he fled southward, chuckling to himself as he splashed through
the puddles and mudholes. He heard shouts in the distance and he did not
decrease his speed until he neared the street opening below. There he
ran into some one and fell. Besmeared and bespattered, he quickly
picked himself up; and when, a moment later, he gained the sidewalk, no
one would hardly have recognized in the dilapidated-looking creature the
dapper Hugh Ridgeway. Police whistles were calling behind him, nearer
and nearer, but he walked boldly out into the street and up to Sixth
Avenue. His nerves were tingling and his breathing was hard to control
after the mad dash through the alley, but he slouched along in the lee
of the buildings to escape the downpour, stopping near the corner.

Suddenly he rushed out and hailed a passing cab, climbed inside and gave
orders to drive as quickly as possible to the Twenty-third Street Ferry.
Then he sat up boldly and stared forth with all the courage that his
escape inspired.

"By Jove," he was shouting inwardly, "that poor devil was on my heels.
He looked hard as he hustled past, but I stared back just as hard. It
took nerve to face him. Hang it all, I'm sorry for him. He wasn't to
blame. But this letter will cheer him up. It's for the kids if anything
happens to him."

Apparently changing his mind at Herald Square, he instructed the driver
to go down Thirty-fifth