ght, Carshaw set out
to walk a couple of blocks to the elevated railway, his main objective
being dinner with his mother in their apartment on Madison Avenue. He
found himself in a comparatively quiet street, wherein blocks of cheap
modern flats alternated with the dingy middle-class houses of a by-gone
generation. He halted to light a cigarette, and, at that moment, a girl
of remarkable beauty passed, walking quickly, yet without apparent
effort. She was pallid and agitated, and her eyes were swimming with
ill-repressed tears.

As a matter of fact, Winifred nearly broke down at sight of her empty
abode. It was a cheerless place at best, and now the thought of being
left there alone had induced a sense of feminine helplessness which
overcame her utterly.

Carshaw was distinctly impressed. In the first place, he was young and
good-looking, and human enough to try and steal a second glance at such
a lovely face, though the steadily decreasing light was not altogether
favorable. Secondly, he thought he had never seen any girl who carried
herself with such rhythmic grace. Thirdly, here was a woman in distress,
and, to one of Carshaw's temperament and upbringing, that in itself
formed a convincing reason why he should wish to help her.

He racked his brain for a fitting excuse to offer his services. He could
find none. Above all else, Rex Carshaw was a gentleman.

Of course, he could not tell that the way was being made smooth for
knight-errantry by a certain dragon named Fowle. He did not even quicken
his pace, and was musing on the curious incongruity of the maid in
distress with the rather squalid district in which she had her being
when he saw a man bar her path.

This was Fowle, who, with lifted hat, was saying deferentially: "Miss
Bartlett, may I have a word?"

Winifred stopped as though she had run into an unseen obstruction. She
even recoiled a step or two.

"What do you want?" she said, and there was a quality of scorn, perhaps
of fear, in her voice that sent Carshaw, now five yards away, into the
open doorway of a block of flats. He was an impulsive young man. He
liked the girl's face, and quite as fixedly disliked Fowle's. So he
adopted the now world-famous policy of watchful waiting, being not
devoid of a dim belief that the situation might evolve an overt act.

"I want to tell you how sorry I am for what happened to-day," said
Fowle, trying to speak sympathetically, but not troubling to veil the
bold a