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“Dora!”

She stood perfectly still. The color died out of her face; but only for an instant. She looked alarmed, then perplexed, and then she smiled. She was evidently a young woman of resources.

The man was a stalwart handsome fellow of his class–though it was almost impossible to guess what that was save that it was not that which the world labels by exterior signs “gentleman.” He might easily have been some sort of a mechanic. He was certainly neither a clerk nor the follower of any of the unskilled professions. He was surely countrybred, for there was a largeness in his expression as well as his bearing that spoke distinctly of broad vistas and exercise. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He stood well on his feet, hampered as little by his six feet of height and fourteen stone weight as he was by the size of his hands. One would have easily backed him to ride well and shoot straight, though he probably never saw the inside of what is called a “drawing-room.”

There was the fire of a mighty emotion in his deep-set eyes. There were signs of a tremendous animal force in his square chin and thick neck, but it was balanced well by his broad brow and wide-set eyes. He seemed at this moment to hold himself in check with a rigid stubbornness that answered for his New England origin, and Puritan ancestry! Indeed, at the moment he addressed the woman, but for his eyes, he might have seemed as indifferent as any of the stone figures that upheld the iron girders of the roof above him!

Still smiling archly she moved forward into the waiting room and, passing through the dense crowd that hung about the door, crossed the room to an open space.

Without a word the man followed.

The room was dimly lighted. The crowd that surged about them, coming and going, and sometimes pressing close on every side, seemed not to note them. And, if they had, they would have seen nothing more remarkable than an extremely pretty young woman conversing quietly with a big fellow in a reefer and long boots–a rig he carried well.

“Dora!” he said again, and then had to pause to steady his voice.

Dora wet her red lips with the pointed tip of her tiny tongue; swallowed nervously once or twice, before she spoke. She was now facing him, and still smiling.

He kept his eyes fixed on her face. He did not respond to the smile. His eyes were tragic. He seemed to be seeking something in her face as if he feared her mere words would not help him.

“Why, Zeke,” she said at last, when she realized that he could not get beyond her name, “I thought you had gone home an hour ago! Why didn’t you take the 5.15 train?”

“I changed my mind! To tell you the truth, I heard that you were in town this afternoon. I have been watching for you–for some time.”

“Well, all I can say is–you are foolish. Where’s the good for you fretting yourself so? I can take care of myself.”

“I can’t get used to you being about in the city streets alone.”

“How absurd!”

“I have been absurd a great many times of late–in your eyes. Our ideas don’t seem to agree any more.”

“No, Zeke, they don’t!”

“Why speak to me in that tone, Dora? Don’t do it!”

He looked over her head, as if to be sure of his hold on himself. He was ghastly white about his smooth-shaven, thick lips. Both hands were thrust deep into his reefer pockets.

“What’s come to you, Zeke?” she asked nervously. His was not exactly the face one would see unmoved!

He answered her without looking at her. It was evident he did not dare just yet. “Nothing much, I reckon. I’ve been a bit down all day. I really don’t know why, myself. I’ve had a queer presentiment, as if something were going to happen. As if something terrible were coming to me.”