present you to her."

"Doesn't she ever come to America?"

"I think not. She says the Continent, and Paris in particular, is good
enough for her."

Harleston left Clarke at Dupont Circle and turned down Massachusetts
Avenue.

The broad thoroughfare was deserted, yet at the intersection of
Eighteenth Street he came upon a most singular sight.

A cab was by the curb, its horse lying prostrate on the asphalt, its box
vacant of driver.

Harleston stopped. What had he here! Then he looked about for a
policeman. Of course, none was in sight. Policemen never are in sight on
Massachusetts Avenue.

As a general rule, Harleston was not inquisitive as to things that did
not concern him--especially at one o'clock in the morning; but the
waiting cab, the deserted box, the recumbent horse in the shafts excited
his curiosity.

The cab, probably, was from the stand in Dupont Circle; and the cabby
likely was asleep inside the cab, with a bit too much rum aboard.
Nevertheless, the matter was worth a step into Eighteenth Street and a
few seconds' time. It might yield only a drunken driver's mutterings at
being disturbed; it might yield much of profit. And the longer Harleston