"There's the dearest little girl in all the world in the case," he
admitted, "but I haven't time to tell you about it now. I'll see you
later."

With this remark he plunged forward into the gathering gloom, leaving
Clinton Kendale standing motionless gazing after him in the greatest
surprise. But the cold was too intense for him to remain there but an
instant; then wheeling about, he hastily struck into a side street,
muttering between his teeth:

"He must let me have that five hundred dollars, or I am ruined. I must
have it from him by fair means or foul, ere the light of another day
dawns. I've borrowed a cool two thousand from him in four months. I
wonder how much more he has laid by? I must have that five hundred, no
matter what I have to resort to to get it, that's all there is about it.
I am desperate to-night, and a person in my terrible fix fears neither
God nor man."

Meanwhile Lester Armstrong pushed rapidly onward, scarcely heeding the
bitter cold and terrible, raging storm, for his heart was in a glow.

He reached the Grand Central Depot just as the gates were closing, but
managed to dash through them and swing himself aboard of the train just
as it was moving out of the station.

The car was crowded; standing room only seemed to be the prospect, but
the young man did not seem disturbed by it, but settled his broad frame
against the door and looked out at the sharp sleet that lashed against
the window panes with something like a smile on his lips.