night. Long experience informed him that this was a fare.

She was of medium height, and comfortably guarded against the frigidity
of the night by a long fur coat buttoned snugly around her neck. She wore
a small squirrel tam, and was heavily veiled. In her right hand she
carried a large suit-case and in her left a purse.

She stepped to the curb and looked around inquiringly. She signalled the
cab. Even as he speeded his car forward, Spike wondered at her
indifference to the almost unbearable cold.

"Cab, miss?"

He pulled up short before her.

"Yes." Her tone was almost curt. She had her hand on the door handle
before Spike could make a move to alight. "Drive to 981 East End Avenue."

Without leaving the driver's seat, Spike reached for her suit-case and
put it beside him. The woman--a young woman, Spike reflected--stepped
inside and slammed the door. Spike fed the gas and started, whirling
south on Atlantic Avenue for two blocks, and then turning to his left
across the long viaduct which marks the beginning of East End Avenue.

He settled himself for a long and unpleasant drive. To reach 981 East End
Avenue he had to drive nearly five miles straight in the face of the
December gale.

And then he found himself wondering about the woman. Her coat--a rich fur
thing of black and gray--her handbag, her whole demeanor--all bespoke