affluence. She had probably been visiting at some little town, and had
come down on the accommodation; but no one had been there to meet her.
Anyway, Spike found himself too miserable and too cold to reflect much
about his passenger.

He drove into a head wind. The sleet slapped viciously against his
windshield and stuck there. The patent device he carried for the purpose
of clearing rain away refused to work. Spike shoved his windshield up in
order to afford a vision of the icy asphalt ahead.

And then he grew cold in earnest. He seemed to freeze all the way
through. He drove mechanically, becoming almost numb as the wind,
unimpeded now, struck him squarely. He lost all interest in what he was
doing or where he was going. He called himself a fool for having left the
cozy warmth of the White Star Café. He told himself--

Suddenly he clamped on the brakes. It was a narrow squeak! The end of the
long freight train rumbled on into the night. Spike hadn't seen it; only
the racket of the big cars as they crossed East End Avenue, and then the
lights on the rear of the caboose, had warned him.

He stopped his car for perhaps fifteen seconds to make sure that the
crossing was clear, then started on again, a bit shaken by the narrow
escape. He bumped cautiously across the railroad tracks.

The rest of the journey was a nightmare. The suburb through which he was
passing seemed to have congealed. Save for the corner lights, there was
no sign of life. The roofs and sidewalks glistened with ice. Occasionally
the car struck a bump and skidded dangerously. Spike had forgotten his
passenger, forgotten the restaurant, the coffee, the weather itself. He