he reached the other side. A sudden closing in of cabs and carts midway
between curbs held John Steele back; he caught quickly at the bridle of
the nearest horse and forced it aside. An expostulating shout, a
half-scream from somewhere greeted the action; a whip snapped, stung his
cheek. An instant he paused as if to leap up and drag the aggressor from
his seat, but instead with closed hands and set face he pushed on; to be
blocked again by an importunate cab.

"Turn back; get out of this somehow, cabby!" He heard familiar tones,
saw the speaker, Sir Charles, and, by his side--yes, through the curtain
of fog, so near he could almost reach out and touch her, he saw as in a
flash, Jocelyn Wray!

She, too, saw him, the man in the street, his pale face lifted up,
ghost-like, from the mist. A cry fell from her lips, was lost amid other
sounds. An instant eyes looked into eyes; hers, dilated; his,
unnaturally bright, burning! Then as in a daze the beautiful head bent
toward him; the daintily clad figure leaned forward, the sensitive and
trembling lips half parted.

John Steele sprang back, to get free, to get out of there at once! Did
she call? he did not know; it might be she had given voice to her
surprise, but now only the clatter and uproar could be heard. In the
fog, however, her face seemed still to follow; confused, for a moment,
he did not heed his way. Something struck him--a wheel? He half fell,
recovered himself, managed to reach the curb.

He was conscious now of louder shoutings; of the sting on his cheek; of
the traffic, drifting on--slowly. Then he, too, started to walk away, in
the opposite direction; it mattered little whither he bent his footsteps