Had she not been held up and hurried along by the throng, she would have
fallen in a faint. As it was her senses seemed to reel. "Johnny
Thompson! Alive! Arrested! Conspiracy!" It could not be true.

Breaking away from the crowd, she snatched a paper from a boy, flung him
a half-dollar, then hurried to the corner, where, beneath an arclight
she read the astounding news. Again it seemed that her senses would
desert her. With an effort she made her way to a restaurant where a cup
of black coffee revived her.

For a time she sat in a daze, utterly oblivious of the figure she cut--a
well dressed, handsome young woman in opera cloak and silk gown, seated
at the counter of a cheap restaurant.

Johnny Thompson alive, here in Chicago, arrested for conspiracy? What
did it mean? Could it mean that Johnny had been a deserter, that he had
become involved in the radical movement which, coming from Russia,
seemed about to sweep the country off its feet? She could not quite
believe that, but--

Suddenly a new thought sent her hurrying into the street. Hailing a
taxi, she ordered the chauffeur to drive around the block until she gave
him further orders. Her thoughts now were all shaped toward a definite
end: Johnny Thompson, her good pal, was not dead. He was in Chicago and
in trouble. If it were within her power, she must find him and help him.

Studying the newspaper, she noted the point at which he had been
arrested. "Wells street bridge," she read. "That means the Madison
Street police station."