While he was gone the conductor of the street car appeared in quest of
the names and addresses of everybody within a radius of ten blocks. In
this way the Candy Man learned that her name was Bentley. She gave it
reluctantly, as persons do on such occasions, and he failed to catch
her street and number.

"I'm very sorry! I suppose there is nothing one can do?" she exclaimed,
apropos of the chauffeur, and the next the Candy Man knew she was
walking away in the mist hand in hand with the long-legged child.

"An unusually charming face," the Miser remarked, raising his umbrella.

To the sober mind "unusually charming" would seem a not unworthy
compliment, but the Candy Man, as he resumed his place in the wagon,
smiled scornfully at what he was pleased to consider its grotesque
inadequacy. If he had anything better to offer, the Miser did not stay
to hear it, but with a courteous "good evening" disappeared in his
turn in the mist. An ambulance carried away the injured man, the crowd
dispersed; the remains of the machine were towed away to a near-by
garage. Night fell; the throng grew less, the rain gathered courage and
became a downpour. There would be little doing in the way of business
to-night.

As he made ready for early closing the Candy Man fell to thinking of the
girl whose name was Bentley. Not that the name interested him save as a
means of further identification. It was a phrase used by the Reporter
this morning that occurred to him now as peculiarly applicable to her.
The Girl of All Others! He rolled it as a sweet morsel under his tongue,
undisturbed by the reflection that such descriptive titles are at
present overworked--in dreams one has no need to be original.