ctor. Hurry and get us
away from here. There's good money in it for you!"

The promise--and the reassurance of the physician's address--convinced
the chauffeur. We whirled off toward Washington Square.

Within the swaying taxi I sat holding the trembling girl. She was
sobbing now, but quieting.

"There," I murmured. "We won't hurt you; we're just taking you to a
doctor. You can explain to him. He's very intelligent."

"Yes," she said softly. "Yes. Thank you. I'm all right now."

She relaxed against me. So beautiful, so dainty a creature.

Larry leaned toward us. "You're better now?"

"Yes."

"That's fine. You'll be all right. Don't think about it."

* * * * *

He was convinced she was insane. I breathed again the vague hope that
it might not be so. She was huddled against me. Her face, upturned to
mine, had color in it now; red lips; a faint rose tint in the pale
cheeks.

She murmured, "Is this New York?"

My heart sank. "Yes," I answered. "Of course it is."

"But when?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what year?"

"Why, 1935!"

She caught her breath. "And your name is--"

"George Rankin."

"And I,"--her laugh had a queer break in it--"I am Mistress Mary
Atwood. But just a few minutes ago--oh, am I dreaming? Surely I'm not
insane!"

Larry again leaned over us. "What are you talking about?"

"You're friendly, you two. Like men; strange, so very strange-looking
young men. This--this carriage without any horses--I know now it won't
hurt me."

She sat up. "Take me to your doctor. And then to the general of your
army. I must see him, and warn him. Warn you all." She was turning
half hysterical again. She laughed wildly. "Your general--he won't be
General Washington, of course. But I must warn him."

She gripped me. "You think I am demented. But I am not. I am Mary
Atwood, daughter of Major Charles Atwood, of General Washington's
staff. That was my home, where you broke the window. But it did not
look like that a few moments ago. You tell me this is the year 1935,
but just a few moments ago I was living in the year 1777!"

CHAPTER II

_From Out of the Past_

"Sane?" said Dr. Alten. "Of course she's sane." He stood gazing down
at Mary Atwood. He was a tall, slim fellow, this famous young
alienist, with dark hair turning slightly grey at the temples and a
neat black mustache that made him look older than he was. Dr. Alten at
this time, in spite of his eminence