only remembered that he was cold--almost unbearably cold.

Then he began taking note of the houses. There was No. 916. He looked
ahead. These were houses of the poorer type, the homes of laborers
situated on the outer edge of the suburb of East End. Funny--the
handsomely dressed woman--such a poor neighborhood--

He came to a halt before a dilapidated bungalow which squatted darkly in
the night. Stiff with cold, he reached his hand back to the door on the
right of the car, and with difficulty opened it. Then he spoke:

"Here y'are, miss--No. 981!"

There was no answer. Spike repeated:

"Here y'are, miss."

Still no answer. Spike clambered stiffly from the car, circled to the
curb, and stuck his head in the door.

"Here, miss--"

Spike stepped back. Then he again put his head inside the cab.

"Well, I'll be--"

The thing was impossible, and yet it was true. Spike gazed at the seat.
The woman had disappeared!

The thing was absurd; impossible. He had seen her get into the cab at the