“Fifty-four!” bellowed the footman through his megaphone for the sixth time, and he slanted his umbrella to protect his face from the driving rain which half-blinded him. A waiting automobile, whose chauffeur had mistaken the number called, moved slowly off and gave place to a carriage and pair.

“Fifty-four,” mumbled the coachman, checking his restive horses with difficulty.

The footman turned, touched his hat, and beckoned to Cynthia Carew, who stood waiting in the vestibule. With a rueful glance at the wet sidewalk, she gathered her skirts up above her ankles and, propelled by the sturdy arm of her escort, Captain Lane, was landed breathless at the carriage door.

“In with you,” laughed Lane, as his umbrella was almost dragged from his hand by the high wind. “Your wrap is too pretty to be ruined....” Cynthia was half lifted, half pushed inside the landau.... “Good night, my dearest.”

The door slammed shut; the horses, weary of long standing, started forward at the sound and raced around the corner into Massachusetts Avenue before the sleepy coachman could collect his wits.

Cynthia, on the point of seating herself, was flung toward the farther corner of the carriage by the sudden jerk. Instinctively she threw out her hand to steady herself, and her open palm encountered what was unmistakably a broad shoulder.

“Good gracious!” recoiling and collapsing sideways on the seat. “Philip! How you frightened me.”

Then she settled herself more comfortably and, with an effort, chatted on.

“The dance really was great fun, just our set you know, some of the Diplomatic Corps, and a number of the officers from the Barracks. I hated to leave so early,” regretfully, “but I promised Uncle James. Mrs. Owen asked particularly for you, and was greatly put out because you did not appear. Honestly, Philip, I am very tired of trying to explain your sudden aversion to society. Why do you shun your friends?”

Not getting an immediate answer she repeated her question more emphatically. Still no reply. The silence caught her attention. Turning her head she scanned the quiet figure by her side.

The pelting rain, which beat drearily upon the carriage roof and windows, almost drowned the sound of rapid hoof-beats. The high wind had apparently extinguished the carriage lamps and the dim street lights failed to illuminate the interior of the rapidly moving carriage. In the semi-darkness Cynthia could not distinguish her companion’s face.

“It is you, Philip?” she questioned sharply, and waited an appreciable moment; then a thought occurred to her. “Uncle James, are you trying to play a practical joke?” Her voice rose to a higher key.

Her question was ignored.

Cynthia caught her breath sharply. Suppose the man was a stranger? She shrank farther back into her corner. If so, how came he there? Intently she studied the vague outlines of his figure.

The landau was an old-fashioned vehicle built after a commodious pattern by a past generation, and frequently used by Senator Carew on stormy nights, as the two broad seats would accommodate five or six persons by tight squeezing.

Cynthia clutched her wrap with nervous fingers. If the man had inadvertently entered the wrong carriage, the least he could do was to explain the situation and apologize. But suppose he was drunk? The thought was not reassuring.

“Tell me at once who you are,” she demanded imperiously, “or I will stop the carriage.”

At that instant the driver swung his horses abruptly to the left to avoid an excavation in the street made by the sewer department, and, as the wheels skidded on the slippery asphalt, the man swayed sideways, and fell upon Cynthia. A slight scream escaped her, and she pushed him away, only to have the limp figure again slide back upon her.

He was undoubtedly drunk! Thoroughly alarmed she pushed him upright, and struggled vainly to open the carriage door with her disengaged hand.

With a tremendous jolt, which again deposited the helpless figure on her shoulder, the carriage wheels struck the curb as the horses turned into the driveway leading to the porte-cochÈre of the Carew residence. As the horses came to a standstill the front door was thrown open, and the negro butler hastened down the short flight of steps.

Cynthia, with one desperate effort, flung the man back into his corner and, as the butler turned the stiff handle and opened the door, half jumped, half fell out of the landau.

“A man’s in the carriage, Joshua,” she cried. “See who it is.”

The servant looked at her in surprise, then obediently poked his head inside the open door. Unable to see clearly he drew back and fumbled in his pocket for a matchbox.

“Keep dem hosses still, Hamilton,” he directed, as the coachman leaned down from his seat, and then he pulled out a match. “Miss Cynthia, yo’ bettah go inter der house,” glancing at the young girl’s pale countenance, “I’ll ’ten to dis hyar pusson.”

But Cynthia remained where she was and peeped over the butler’s shoulder. He struck a match and held it in the hollow of his hand until the tiny flame grew brighter, then leaned forward and gazed into the carriage.

The intruder was huddled in the corner, his head thrown back, and the light fell on a livid face and was reflected back from glazing eyes. Cynthia’s knees gave way, and she sank speechless to the ground.

“’Fore Gawd!” gasped Joshua, “it’s Marse James—an’ he’s daid!”

“But Cynthia remained where she was and peeped over
the butler’s shoulder”