e there to take delivery. No more bows and smiles after that;
but what could they do, and what offence had she committed? That was
just what the 'tec asked me, and I could not answer.

"We know most of 'em," he said, "but she's a right-down finger-print
from the backwoods. Nathaniel St. John cables from New York that he
doesn't know her, but will be pleased to make her acquaintance, if
we'll frank her over. I tell these people they can sue her--but, man,
you might as well sue the statue of Oliver Cromwell----"

"He being stony-broke likewise," said I. "Well, she had a run for her
money, and here's good luck to her. I hope that I haven't seen her for
the last time."

"If you have," says he, "put me in Madame Tussaud's. When next you
hear of Dolly St. John it will be in something big. Remember that when
the day comes."

I told him I would not forget it, and we parted upon it. Dolly was a
pretty bit of goods for a tea-party, but a driver sees too many faces
to keep one over-long in his memory, and I will say straight out, that
I had forgotten her very name when next I saw her, and was just about
the most astonished man inside the four-mile radius when I picked her
up one fine afternoon at a West End hotel, and she told me we were
going to drive into the country together.

"But," says I, "this car has been hired by Miss Phyllis More----"

"Oh, you stupid man!" cried she. "Don't you see that I am Miss Phyllis
More? I thought you were clever enough to understand that ladies
change their names sometimes, Britten. Now, why shouldn't I be Phyllis
More if I wish to? Are you going to be unkind enough to tell people
about it? I'm sure you are not, for you were so very good to me when
last I was in England."

Now all this took place in her private room, to which I had been sent
up by the porter. Three months had passed since I drove Dolly and the
Honorary John, but not a whit had she changed; and I found her just the
same seductive little witch with the dimples and the curly brown hair,
who had played the deuce with the West End tradesmen last
Christmas-time. Beautifully dressed in green, with a pretty motor
veil, she was a picture I must say; and when I looked at her and
remembered Hook-Nosed Moss, our traffic manager at the Empire Company,
and how he docked me four and nine last Saturday, I swore I'd take her;
yes, if she ordered me to drive through to San Francisco.

"I don't suppose I ought to do it, mis