Aroused to action too late, he bolted after her, only to see her enter a waiting taxi-cab and—yes, she did look back over her shoulder. She knew he would follow! He raised his hat, and he was sure that she smiled—faintly, it is true, but still she smiled. If he hoped that she would condescend to alter her course, he was doomed to disappointment. The driver obeyed his original instructions and shot off in the direction of Lafayette Street.

The memory of her tribute—a blush and a fleeting smile—was to linger with Sampson for many a weary, watchful day.

The taxi-cab—a noisy, ungentle abomination—was whirling her corporeal loveliness out of his reach and vision with exasperating swiftness, leaving him high and dry in an endless, barren desert. His heart gave a tremendous jump when a traffic policeman stopped the car at the corner above. He set forth as fast as his long legs could carry him with dignity, hoping and praying that the officer would be as slow and as stubborn about—But she must have looked into the fellow's eyes and smiled, for, with surprising amiability, he signified that she was to proceed. Apparently he was too dazzled to reprimand or caution the driver, for the taxi went forward at an increased speed.

Some one touched Sampson's elbow. He withdrew his gaze from the vanishing taxi-cab and allowed it to rest in sheer amazement upon the bleak countenance of No. 7.

“She's going away,” said No. 7 in sepulchral tones.

“Evidently,” said Sampson. “Exceeding the speed limit while she is about it, too.”

“I mean,” said the other, “she's going to take a long journey. She's leaving New York! That taxi is full of satchels and valises and stuff, and the driver has orders to get her to the Hudson tube by eleven o'clock. I heard that much anyhow, hangin' around here. Say, do you know there is another woman in that cab with her? There sure is. I saw her plain as day. Kind of an old woman with two or three little satchels and one of them dinky white dogs in her lap.”

“A lady's maid,” said Sampson.

“Where do you suppose she's going?”

“How should I know?” demanded Sampson severely.

“And why is she running away without grandpa? What's going to become of the old man? Seems as though she'd ought to hang around until he's—”

“I daresay she knows what she is doing,” said Sampson, disturbed by the same thoughts.

“Maybe he's going to join her later on?” hopefully. “Over in Jersey somewhere.”

“Very likely. Good-bye.” Sampson wrung the limp hand of No. 7 and made off toward Broadway.

He lunched with a friend at the Lawyers' Club. In the smoking room afterwards, he came face to face with the assistant district attorney who had prosecuted the case of James Hildebrand. His friend exclaimed:

“Hello, Wilks! You ought to know Mr. Sampson. He's been under your nose for a week or ten days.”

Wilks grinned as he shook hands with the exjuror. “Glad to know you as Mr. Sampson, sir, and not as No. 3. We had a rather interesting week, of it, didn't we?”

Sampson was surprised to find that he rather liked the good-humoured twinkle in Wilks's eyes. He had thoroughly disapproved of him up to this instant. Now he appeared as a mild, pleasant-voiced young man with a far from vindictive eye and a singularly engaging smile. Departing from his rÔle as prosecutor, Wilks succeeded in becoming an uncommonly decent fellow.

“Interesting, to say the least,” replied Sampson.

Wilks had coffee with them, and a cigar.

“I must say, Mr. Sampson, that you jurors had something out of the ordinary to contend with. There isn't the remotest doubt that old Hildebrand is guilty, and yet there was a wave of sympathy for him that extended to all of us, enveloped us, so to speak. At the outset, we were disposed to go easy with him, realising that we had a dead open and shut case against him.

“We awoke to our danger when the trial was half over. That is to say, we awoke to the fact that Miss Alexandra Hildebrand was likely to upset the whole pot of beans for us. You have no idea what we sometimes have to contend with. There is nothing so difficult to fight against as the force of feminine appeal. Men are simple things, you see. We boast about our righteous strength of purpose, but along comes a gentle, frail bit of womanhood and we find ourselves—well, up in the air! Miss Hildebrand had a decidedly agreeable effect on all of us. It is only natural that she should. We realised what it all meant to her, and I daresay there wasn't one of us who relished the thought of hurting her.

“Her devotion was really quite beautiful,” observed Sampson, feeling that he had to put himself on record.

“I understand how you jurors felt about her and, through her, about the old man. The State is satisfied to let him off as you recommended. It is more than likely that he was badly treated in those deals with Stevens and Drew, and if he can rehabilitate himself I think we will have done well not to oppose leniency. At any rate, his granddaughter has something to rejoice over, even though she may have been shocked by your decision that he is guilty.”

“What do you know about her, Mr. Wilks?” inquired Sampson.

“Nothing in particular. She is an orphan, as you know, and I understand she has been residing with her grandfather in Switzerland. She returned to this country with him at the time of his voluntary surrender three months ago. His bail was fixed at twenty thousand dollars, and she tried to raise it, but failed. She has been trying to sell his Bronx property, but, of course, that sort of thing takes time. I understand that a deal is about to be closed, however, thanks to her untiring efforts, and the old man may realise handsomely after all. I suppose the Cornwallis Realty and Investment Company will bring civil action to regain the fifty thousand lost through his defection. If he is sensible he will restore the amount and—well, that will be the end of it.”

“Why didn't he sell it long ago?”

“He couldn't very well manage it without coming to New York, and he was so closely watched that he couldn't do that without running a very great risk. Evidently she, believing absolutely in his innocence, induced him to give himself up and have his name cleared of the stigma that was upon it. This is mere conjecture, of course.”

“Well, she's a brick, at any rate,” said Sampson, with some enthusiasm.

Wilks smiled. “That verdict, at least, is universal. Justice, however, has miscarried in more cases than I care to mention, simply because some little woman proves herself to be a brick. No doubt you will recall any number of such cases right here in New York. If we had had the remotest idea what Miss Hildebrand was like, we would have put up a strenuous kick against her sitting beside the prisoner where you all could see and be seen. She made it hard for you to convict the old man, and she certainly wormed the recommendation to the Court out of you. To tell you the truth, we feared an acquittal. When the jury stayed out all night I said to myself: 'We're licked, sure as shooting. 'The best we looked for was a disagreement. I've been told that the first half dozen ballots stood eleven to one for acquittal. So you see, I wasn't far off in my surmise. It has taught me a lesson. There will be no more attractive, thoroughly upsetting young ladies to cast spells over judge, jury, and lawyers if I can help it. I hope you will pardon me for saying it, Mr. Sampson, but I am firmly convinced if there had been no Miss Alexandra Hildebrand in the case you gentlemen would have brought in your verdict in twenty minutes.”

“I suppose you know that I am the one who stood out against the eleven,” said Sampson.

“I suspected as much. I don't mind saying that the State counted on you, Mr. Sampson.” Sampson started. How was this? The State counted on him also? Suddenly he flushed.

“I had a notion that Miss Hildebrand counted on me, Mr. Wilks.”

“She did,” said the lawyer. “I think she lost a little of her confidence, however, as the trial progressed. She appeared to be devoting nearly all of her energies to you. You, apparently, were the one who had to be subdued, if you will forgive the term. She is the cleverest, shrewdest young woman I've ever seen. She is the best judge of men that I've ever encountered—far and away better than I or any one connected with our office. When that jury was completed I realised, with a sort of shock, that it was she who selected it. She made but one mistake—and that was in you. There is where we were smarter than she. I knew that you would do the right thing by us, in spite of your very palpable efforts to get off. If there had been some one else in your place, Mr. Sampson, James Hildebrand would have been acquitted.”

“Possibly,” said Sampson, with a sinking of the heart. He felt like a Judas! She had made but one mistake, and it was fatal!

“As I was saying,” went on Wilks, blowing rings toward the ceiling, “women play thunder with us sometimes. A friend of mine from Chicago dined with me last night. He is in the State's Attorney's office out there and he's down here on business. You ought to hear him on the subject of women mixing up in criminal cases. He says it's fatal—if they're pretty and appealing. Nine times out of ten they have more nerve, more character and a good deal more intelligence than the average juryman, and Mr. Juror is like wax in their hands. Take a case they had out there last fall—the Brownley case—you read about it, perhaps. Young fellow from Louisiana got into bad company in Chicago, and went all wrong. Gambled and then had to rob his employers to get square with the world. His father and sister came up from New Orleans and made a fight for him. They got the best legal talent in town, and then little sister sat beside brother and petted him from time to time. A cinch! The jury was out an hour. Not guilty! See what I mean? And you remember the Paris case a year or two ago when the detectives nabbed a couple of international card sharks and bunco men after they had worked the Atlantic for two years straight without being landed? French juries tried 'em separately. One of them got five years and the other got off scot free. Why? Because his pretty young wife turned up and—well, you know the French! Woman is lovely in her place, but her place isn't in the court-room unless she favours the prosecution.”

“They're like good-looking nurses,” said Sampson's friend. “They make a chap forget everything else.”

“Same principle,” said Wilks. “Patients and juries are much the same. They require careful nursing.”

Sampson was like a lost soul during the weeks that followed the trial. The hundred and one distractions he sought in the feverish effort to drive Alexandra Hildebrand out of his thoughts failed of their purpose. They only left him more eager than before. He longed for a glimpse of her adorable face, for a single look into her eyes, for the smile she had promised as she rode away from him, for the sheer fragrance of her unapproachable beauty. She filled his heart and brain, and she was lost to him.

The most depressing fits of jealousy overtook him. He tried to reason with himself. Why shouldn't she have a sweetheart? Why shouldn't she be in love with some one? What else could he expect—in heaven's name, what else? Of course there was one among all the hundreds who adored her that she could adore in return. Still he was sick with jealousy. He hated even the possibility that there was a man living who could claim her as his own.

At the end of a month of resolute inactivity, he threw off all restraint and inaugurated a determined though innocuous search for her. He made it his business to stroll up and down Fifth Avenue during the fashionable hours of the day, and so frantic were his efforts to discover her in the shifting throngs that he always went home with a headache, bone-weary and appetiteless. His alert, all-enveloping gaze swept the avenue from Thirty-fourth Street to Fiftieth at least twice a day, and by night it raked the theatres and restaurants with an assiduity that rendered him an impossible companion for friends who were so unfortunate as to be involved in his prowlings. His lack of concentration, except in one pursuit, was woful. His friends were annoyed, and justly. No one likes inattention. Half the time he didn't hear a word they were saying to him, and the other half they were resentfully silent.

He invaded Altman's, McCreery's, Lord & Taylor's and the other big shops, buying things that he did not want, and he entered no end of fashionable millinery establishments—and once a prominent corset concern—not for the sake of purchasing, of course, but always with the manner of an irritated gentleman looking for an inconsiderate wife.

This determined effort to ferret out Miss Hildebrand was due to a report from No. 7, on whom he called one day in regard to an electrical disturbance in his apartment. No. 7 told him that No. 4, who was the proprietor of a plumbing establishment in Amsterdam Avenue, had seen Miss Hildebrand on top of a passing Fifth Avenue stage. By means of some remarkable sprinting No. 4, fortunately an unmarried man, overtook the stage at the corner above (Forty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue), and climbed aboard. Just as he sat down, all out of breath, two seats behind the young lady, she got off and entered Sloane's. No. 4 had a short argument with the conductor about paying fare for a ride of two blocks, but it was long enough to carry him to the corner above Sloane's, so that when he got back to the big shop she was lost.

He was not discouraged. Saying that he was waiting for his wife he continued to invest the approach to the elevators with such success that after nearly an hour (and an hour as computed by plumbers is no small matter) he was rewarded by the appearance of Miss Hildebrand.

Without notifying the floorwalkers that he couldn't wait any longer for his wife, he made off after the young lady, leaving them to think, if they thought at all, that his wife was a very beautiful person who had married considerably beneath her station. Miss Hildebrand waited at the corner for a stage. No. 4 already had squandered ten cents, but he didn't allow that to stand in the way of further adventure. He had his dime ready when the 'bus came along—in fact, he had two dimes ready, for it was his secret hope that she would recognise him. But alas! There was room for but one more passenger, and he was left standing on the curb, while she went rattling up the avenue in what he reckoned to be the swiftest 'bus in the service.

Sampson's deductions were clear. She wouldn't be shopping at Sloane's unless she was buying furnishings of some sort for a house, and it was reasonable to suppose that the house was somewhere within reach of the stage line route. No. 4 had failed to note, however, whether she took a Riverside Drive or a Fifth Avenue stage. Although Sampson was not in need of a plumber's services, he looked up No. 4 and had him send men around to inspect the drain in the kitchen sink. It cost him nearly twelve dollars to have a five minutes' profitless interview with the master-plumber.

It was at this time that he began his pilgrimages up and down Fifth Avenue, and it was also about this time that he acknowledged himself to be a drivelling, silly, sentimental idiot—worse even than the drooping No. 7.

In the course of his investigations he dropped in to see No. 8 at the hat store; he talked insurance with No. 11 (and forever afterward had it talked with him, despite all the pains he took to stop it); he ordered a suit of clothes at the tailor shop of No. 6; and he even went so far as to consult No. 1 about having his piano tuned, a proceeding which called for the immediate acquisition of an instrument. (It occurred to him, however, that it might prove to be money well spent, for any man who is thinking of getting married ought to have a grand piano if he can afford it.)

One day, overcoming an aversion, he sauntered up to a place in Broadway and inquired for No. 12. To his amazement, No. 12 seemed a bit hazy as to the existence of such a person as Miss Hildebrand. It was some time before the fellow could call her to mind, and then only when the trial was mentioned.

“Ah, yes,” said he, rapping his brow soundly, “I get you now. The pretty little thing we saw at the trial. Lord, man, how long ago was that? Two months? Well, say, I've seen a couple or three since then that make her look like a last year's bird's-nest. I'm demonstrating for a little cutey in the Follies just at present and she has Miss Hildebrand lashed to the mast. Yellow hair and eyes as blue as—What's your hurry? I'm not busy—got all kinds of time.”

But Sampson “walked out on him,” raging inwardly. It was all he could do to conquer an impulse to kick No. 12. Comparing Alexandra Hildebrand with a “little cutey in the Follies”! And forgetting her, too! Unspeakable!

He discovered James Hildebrand a day or two later. The old man was living in a small hotel just off Broadway, in the upper Forties. An actor friend of Sampson's was living in the same hotel, and it was through him that he learned that Hildebrand had been stopping there for nearly two months, quite alone. A surprisingly pretty young woman had called to see him on two or three occasions. According to Sampson's informant, the old gentleman had just concluded a real estate deal running into the hundreds of thousands and was soon to return to Europe. This was most regrettable, lamented the actor, for he couldn't remember ever having seen a prettier girl than Hildebrand's visitor—who, he had found out at the desk, was a relative of some description.

A simple process would have been to interview old Mr. Hildebrand, but Sampson's pride and good-breeding proved sufficiently strong and steadfast in the crisis. He held himself aloof.

A week later he saw Mr. Hildebrand off on one of the trans-Atlantic liners. Mr. Hildebrand was not aware of the fact that he was being seen off by any one, however, and Sampson was quite positively certain that no one else was there for the purpose. There was no sign of Alexandra.

He went abroad that summer.... Early in the autumn he was back in New York, resolved to be a fool no longer. No doubt she had married the chap she loved—and was living happily, contentedly in luxurious splendour supplied by Sloane's—as long ago, no doubt, as the early spring it may have happened.

His heart had once ached for her as an orphan, but all that would now be altered if she had taken unto herself a husband. Somehow one ceases to be an orphan the instant one marries. You never think of a fatherless and motherless wife as an orphan. An orphan is some one you are expected to feel sorry for.

He never had thought of himself as an orphan, although his father and mother had been dead for years. No one ever had been sorry for him because he was an orphan. What is it that supplies pity for one sex and not for the other?

January found him in California. A year ago he had planned—Alas, his thoughts were ever prone to leap backward to the events of a year ago—back to the twentieth day of January. He would never forget it. On that day he first looked upon the loveliest of all God's creatures. The year had not dimmed his vision. He could see her still as plainly as on that memorable January day when they “landed” him.

He wanted to see her once more, married or single, just to tell her that it was conscience that caused him to fail her in her hour of need. He wanted her to understand. He wanted her to believe that he couldn't help being honest, and he wanted very much to hear her say that he did the only thing an honourable gentleman could possibly do.

Wending his way northward, he came to San Francisco late in February, and there fell into the open arms of several classmates whom he had not seen since his college days. One of them was Jimmy Dorr, now a brilliant editor and journalist. To him he related the story of the Hildebrand trial, and the fruitless quest of the girl he still dreamed about. Jimmy was vastly interested. He was a romanticist. His eyes glittered with excitement.

“By Jove, it's a corker!” he exclaimed, breathlessly.

“A corker?” repeated Sampson, staring.

“Corking idea for a novel, that's what I mean. Why, you couldn't beat it if you sat down and thought day and night for ten years. Ideas, that's what the novelists want. The only thing that has kept me from breaking into the literary game is an absolute paucity of—ideas. And here you are handing me one. I shall write a novel. I'll have you find her imprisoned in a dungeon by the conniving grandparent—”

“Or by a rascally husband,” put in Sampson, gloomily.

Dorr became thoughtful. “By the way, we've been having a more or less notable trial here for the past week and a half. Lot of interest in it all over the country. Have you heard of the Rodriguez ease?”

“Not yet,” said Sampson, resignedly. “Fire away. I 'll listen.”

“The arguments to the jury will be concluded to-morrow morning and there ought to be a verdict before night. How would you like to go around there with me at ten o 'clock and hear the State's closing argument? I can manage it easily, although it's hard to get tickets. In a word, it is the most popular show in town. Standing room only. Come along, and I'll bet my head you'll never forget the experience.”

“I hate a court-room,” said Sampson.

“Well, you won't hate this one. I've been dropping in every day for an hour or so, and, by gad, it is interesting.” A faraway, dreamy look came into Dorr's spectacled eyes. “Rodriguez is a wonderful character. You see such chaps only in books and plays—seldom in plays, however, for you couldn't find actors to look the part. He is a Spaniard, a native of Mexico City, and as lofty as any grandee you'd find in old Granada itself. Private detectives caught him in Tokio last summer, after a world-wide search of three years. He is charged with forgery. Forged a deed to some property in Berkeley and got away with the proceeds of the sale. He stubbornly maintains that the deed was a bona-fide instrument, and is fighting tooth and nail against the people who accuse him. I 'd like to have you see him, Sampy.”

The next morning, a bit bored but conscious of a thrill of interest in attending a trial in the capacity of spectator instead of talesman, Sampson accompanied the editor to the court-room where the case of the State vs. Victoriana Rodriguez was being heard. The corridors and approaches were packed with people. A subdued buzz of excitement pervaded the air. Every face in the throng revealed the ultimate of eagerness, each body was charged with a muscular ambition to crowd past the obstructing bodies before it. Sampson had never witnessed anything like this before. He demurred.

“See here, Jimmy, I refuse to surge with a mob like this. Good-bye, old man. See you—”

But Dorr conducted him to the private entrance to the judge's chambers, and a few minutes later into the crowded court-room. They found places behind the row of reporters and stood with their backs to the wall.

The jury was in the box, awaiting the opening of court. Sampson surveyed them with some interest. They were a youngish lot of men and, to his way of thinking, about as far from intelligent as the average New York jury. They looked dazed, bewildered and distinctly uncomfortable. He knew how they were feeling—no one knew better than he!

The prisoner entered, followed by his counsel, and took his seat. Sampson favoured Dorr with a smile of derision. Rodriguez was a most ordinary looking fellow—swarthy, unimposing and at least sixty years of age. He was not at all Sampson's conception of a Spanish grandee. Certainly he was not the sort of chap an author would put into a book with the expectation of having his readers accept him as a hero.

“Good Lord, Jimmy, is that the marvellous character you've been talking about!” whispered the New Yorker. “Why, he's just a plain, ordinary greaser. Nothing lofty about him.”

But Jimmy didn't hear. He was gazing in rapt eagerness over the heads of the seated throng outside the railing. Sampson leaned forward and whispered something to the reporter from Dorr's paper. He repeated the remark, receiving no response the first time. The young fellow's reply, when it came, was what Sampson, from his vast experience in law courts, summed up as “totally irrelevant and not pertinent to the case.”

Somewhat annoyed, he turned to Jimmy Dorr. That gentleman's gaze was fixed, so Sampson followed it. A young woman had taken the seat beside the prisoner. He could not see her face, but something told him that it was attractive—and then he was suddenly interested in the way her dark hair grew about her neck and ears. Dorr was whispering:

“She's the most wonderful thing you ever laid eyes on, Sampy. Wait till you get a good peek at her face. You'll forget your old Miss Hill-obeans. She landed here about a month ago, straight from Spain, where she has been in a convent since she was fourteen. Doesn't speak a word of English—not a syllable, the reporters say. She—Hey! Sh! What the devil's the matter with you!”

Sampson had uttered a very audible exclamation. He was staring at her with widespread, glazed, unbelieving eyes. She had turned to favour the reporters with a wistful, shy, entrancing “good morning” smile, and he looked once more upon the face he had never forgotten and would never forget.

“My God!” he whispered, grasping Dorr's arm in a grip that caused his friend to wince. “Why, it's—Not a word of English! A month ago! Out of a convent!” He was babbling weakly. His brain was not working.

“Is it too hot in here for you, old man!” whispered Dorr, alarmed. “Shall we get out! You look as though—”

“Who is she!” gasped Sampson.

Dorr looked triumphant. “I thought she'd bowl you over. But, my Lord, I didn't dream she'd give you such a jolt as this. The whole damned bunch of us has gone mad over her. She's old Rodriguez's daughter—the Senorita Isabella Consuelo Maria Rodriguez.”

THE END