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“Did that man send you to me?” she asked nervously, looking through the door beyond and then through a window at his right, quite puzzled, he could see.

“He did, and I was sure he was mistaken. I knew of no one in this God-forsaken place who could be asking for me,” said he, collecting his wits carefully and herding them into that one sentence. “But perhaps I can help you. Will you tell me whom I am to look for?”

“It is strange he is not here,” she said a little breathlessly. “I wired him just what train to expect me on.”

“Your husband?” ventured he admirably.

“Oh, dear, no!” said she quickly.

“I wish she’d wired me what train to expect her on,” thought he grimly. “She doesn’t know me. That’s good. She was expecting Havens and he’s missed connections somehow,” shot rapidly through his brain. At the same time he was thinking of her as the prettiest woman he had seen in all his life. Then aloud: “I’ll look on the platform. Maybe he’s lost in this great city. What name shall I call out?”

“Please don’t call very loudly. You’ll wake the dead,” she said, with a pathetic smile. “It’s awfully good of you. He may come at any minute, you know. His name is–is”–she hesitated for a second, and then went on determinedly–“Dudley. Tall, dark man. I don’t know how I shall thank you. It’s so very awkward.”

Rossiter darted from her glorious but perplexed presence. He had never seen Havens, but he was sure he could recognize an actor if he saw him in Fossingford. And he would call him Dudley, too. It would be wise. The search was fruitless. The only tall, dark object he saw was the mailcrane at the edge of the platform, but he facetiously asked if its name was Dudley. Receiving no answer, he turned back to cast additional woe into the heart of the pretty intriguer. She was standing in the door, despair in her eyes. Somehow he was pleased because he had not found the wretch. She was so fair to look upon and so appealing in her distress.

“You couldn’t find him? What am I to do? Oh, isn’t it awful? He promised to be here.”

“Perhaps he’s at a hotel.”

“In Fossingford?” in deep disgust. “There’s no hotel here. He was to drive me to the home of a friend out in the country.” Rossiter leaned against the wall suddenly. There was a long silence. He could not find his tongue, but his eyes were burning deep into the plaintive blue ones that looked up into his face.

“I’ll ask the agent,” he said at last.

“Ask him what?” she cried anxiously.

“If he’s been here. No, I’ll ask if there’s a place where you can sleep to-night. Mr. Dudley will surely turn up to-morrow.”

“But I couldn’t sleep a wink. I feel like crying my eyes out,” she wailed.

“Don’t do that!” exclaimed he, in alarm. “I’ll take another look outside.”

“Please don’t. He is not here. Will you please tell me what I am to do?”– very much as if it was his business to provide for her in the hour of need.

Rossiter promptly awoke the agent and asked him where a room could be procured for the lady. Doxie’s boarding-house was the only place, according to the agent, and it was full to overflowing. Besides, they would not “take in” strange women.

“She can sleep here in the waiting-room,” suggested the agent. “They’ll let you sleep in the parlor over at Doxie’s, mister–maybe.”

Rossiter did not have the heart to tell her all that the agent said. He merely announced that there was no hotel except the depot waiting-room.

“By the way, does Mr. Dudley live out in the country?” he asked insidiously. She flushed and then looked at him narrowly.

“No. He’s visiting his uncle up here.”

“Funny he missed you.”

“It’s terribly annoying,” she said coldly. Then she walked away from him as if suddenly conscious that she should not be conversing with a good-looking stranger at such a time and place and under such peculiar circumstances. He withdrew to the platform and his own reflections.