The abode of a gentleman named Slunk was my goal. I sat brooding in
the rickety carriage, still dazed by the rapidity of my flight from
New York; the stenographer sat beside me, blue eyes bright with
excitement, fair hair blowing in the sea-wind.

Our railway companionship had been of the slightest, also absolutely
formal; for I was too absorbed in conjecturing the meaning of this
journey to be more than absent-mindedly civil; and she, I fancy, had
had time for repentance and perhaps for a little fright, though I
could discover traces of neither.

I remember she left the train at some city or other where we were held
for an hour; and out of the car-window I saw her returning with a
brand-new grip sack.

She must have bought clothes, for she continued to remain cool and
fresh in her summer shirt-waists and short outing skirt; and she
looked immaculate now, sitting there beside me, the trace of a smile
curving her red mouth.

"I'm looking for a personage named Slunk," I observed.

After a moment's silent consideration of the Atlantic Ocean she said,
"When do my duties begin, Mr. Gilland?"

"The Lord alone knows," I replied, grimly. "Are you repenting of your
bargain?"

"I am quite happy," she said, serenely.