LITMIR.BIZ

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question put with well-simulated interest that every few minutes was practised on different individuals.

      "Road?" Hugh stared blankly at his questioner. "What road?" Then, like a flash, the solution of the problem pierced his brain.

      "What an ass I am!" he burst out, and added sheepishly: "West Shore!"

      Purposely avoiding the other's face for confirmation of his self-depreciatory exclamation, together with its unmistakable expression of professional tolerance for the imbecilities of mankind, Hugh looked at the time. It was two-thirty. Tearing out of the station, he hailed a cab.

      Inside, and moving fast, he winced a little as he thought of his late strictures on girls and their ways. What a shame to have abused Grace, when he himself had told her to take the Wabash as essential to their plan. What a blooming idiot he was! New York in the telegram meant, of course, the New York side of the river. He recovered his equanimity; the world was serene again.

      With a sharp pull the cabman brought up at the ferry and Hugh took his stand among those waiting for the boat to disgorge its load of passengers.

      At that moment a thought struck him, and acting on it, he called out:

      "Hi! porter!"

      "Here, sir!"

      "Where can I get some note paper?"

      "All right, sir!" and in an instant a pad of paper was forthcoming.

      Hugh took out his pencil and wrote a brief note. Then, in a low voice, he said:

      "Here, porter! I want you to do something for me."

      "Yes, sir!"

      "I'll make it worth your while, but I won't hare you attending to any one else--understand?"

      The porter demonstrated with a nod his perfect comprehension of what was required, and there followed from his employer a minute description of the lady.

      "Young, slight, tall, fair, black hat and veil, and--"

      "In mourning, sir, undoubtedly?"

      "Mourning! No, of course not. Cannot a lady wear black without being in mourning?" Hugh expostulated sharply.

      "Certainly, sir; but generally--"

      Whatever costume the worldly-wise porter would have approved as en régle for a lady, under conditions to his thinking so obviously indiscreet, the description was forestalled by the ingenuous young man, who, dissimilarly apprehensive and oblivious to the innuendo, was heard to grumble:

      "What on earth is the matter with people? Everybody seems to delight in painting this most delectable of undertakings in the most funereal colors!" and went on anxiously: "You're sure you won't miss, her?"

      With an indulgent smile for the youth and inexperience of his patron, and glancing surreptitiously at the size of the bill in his hand, the attendant calmly announced that there was not the faintest possibility of an error. He took his position a little to the right of and behind Hugh, like an adjutant at dress parade. Through the ferry rushed the weary, impatient travellers. Owing to the place Hugh had taken at one side of the run, Grace, at first, did not perceive him. Anxiety, almost fright, showed in her face; there passed through her a thrill of consternation at the thought that perhaps he had not received her telegram. The tense figure clasped the travelling-bag convulsively, and her brown eyes flashed a look of alarm over the waiting throng. Another moment and their gaze met; a voice ringing with happiness assailed her; her heart throbbed again, and the blood rushed back to her troubled face.

      Hugh started forward.

      "Hello, old man!" came suddenly from out of the crowd, and two heavy bags plunked down on the floor; two strong hands grabbed Hugh by the shoulders and their owner cried out boisterously: "What in the name of all the gods are you doing here in New York?"

      Hugh's heart was in his mouth. His blood froze within him. For, shaking him with the embrace of a playful bear, was his old friend McLane Woods--his chum at Princeton.

      Dazed, and not daring to look up, the entangled man made a wild, imploring gesture to the porter The latter caught it, stepped forward and placed the note in the girl's hands.

      "In case I am held up, go to the Astor. Will follow," were the words she read quickly. With ready wit and only one stealthy glance at the two men, Grace speedily followed in the wake of the too obsequious porter, who placed her in a cab.

      "To the Astor!" was the transferred instruction. The cabman, quick to note the ambiguity in the direction given, prepared, with the subtlety of his kind, for a long drive downtown.

      However, the little comedy had not quite escaped attention. There was a note of banter in the strident voice that again addressed Hugh, the speaker accompanying it with a resounding slap on the back.

      "Congratulations in order, old man? Come--you're caught--own up! Who is she?" This with a crony-like dig in the ribs. "Runaway match, eh?"

      At the other's greeting, Ridgeway promptly assured himself that all was lost, and was about to return the welcome as best he could, when the danger in the final words checked him, compelled a subterfuge.

      Assuming a stony glare, an unnatural twist of the mouth, the "old man" turned his bewildered glance upon the speaker, allowing it to resolve itself into a sickening show of reproachfulness, and said in a voice that almost made its owner laugh, it was so villainously artificial:

      "You have the best of me, sir!"

      An amazed expression came over the face of Mr. Woods. His glowing smile dwindled into an incredulous stare.

      "Don't you know me, Hugh?" he finally demanded, half indignantly.

      "I do not, sir. My name is not Hugh, by the way. It is evident that you mistake me for some one else," answered Mr. Ridgeway solemnly and gutturally.

      "Do you mean to say--oh, come now, old man, don't stand up there and try to make a monkey of me. When did you get in?" cried Woods.

      "Pardon me," sharply responded the other, "but I must insist that you are mistaken. I am Dr. James Morton of Baltimore. The resemblance must be remarkable."

      Woods glared at Hugh, perfectly dumb with amazement. He passed his hand over his eyes, cleared his throat a time or two, but seemed completely at a loss for words to express himself.

      "Are you in earnest?" he stammered. "Are you not Hugh Ridgeway of Princeton, ninety--" but Hugh interrupted him politely.

      "Assuredly not. Never was at Princeton in my life. Yale. Will you give me your name and the address of your friend, please? By Jove, I'd like to hunt him up some time!" Hugh was searching in his pockets as if for a pencil and memorandum-book and waiting for his old chum to give him his name.

      "Well, of all the--" muttered Woods, looking into the other's face penetratingly. "I never heard of anything like it. My name is McLane Woods, and the man who looks like you is Hugh Ridgeway of Chicago. I--I'll be hanged if it isn't too strange to be true."

      "Very strange, indeed," smiled Hugh, striving to maintain the expression he had assumed at the beginning--a very difficult task.

      "But this isn't all. At Newburg, I boarded the train, and happening to go through, I saw some one that I could have sworn was a Miss Vernon, whom I met when visiting Ridgeway in Chicago. I started to speak to her; but she gave me such a frigid stare that I sailed by, convinced that I was mistaken. Two such likenesses in one day beats my time. Doesn't seem possible, by George! it doesn't," exclaimed the puzzled New Yorker, his eyes glued to the countenance of the man before him, who, by the way, had almost betrayed himself at the mention of Miss Vernon's name. A thrill of admiration ran through him when Woods announced his reception by the clever girl who was running away with him.

      "I'll do my best to meet this Mr. Ridgeway. I am frequently in Chicago," said he. "Glad to have met you, Mr. Woods, anyhow. If you are ever in Baltimore, hunt me up. I am in the E--- Building."

      "With pleasure, doctor;

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