utter stranger. He had gone and thrillingly had beheld for five
minutes his idol in the flesh, the slim little girl of the sorrowful
eyes and wistful mouth, as she told the vast audience--it seemed to
Merton that she spoke solely to him--by what narrow chance she had
been saved from disappointing it. She had missed the train, but had
at once leaped into her high-powered roadster and made the journey
at an average of sixty-five miles an hour, braving death a dozen
times. For her public was dear to her, and she would not have it
disappointed, and there she was before them in her trim driving
suit, still breathless from the wild ride.

Then she told them--Merton especially--how her directors had again
and again besought her not to persist in risking her life in her
dangerous exploits, but to allow a double to take her place at the
more critical moments. But she had never been able to bring herself
to this deception, for deception, in a way, it would be. The
directors had entreated in vain. She would keep faith with her
public, though full well she knew that at any time one of her dare-
devil acts might prove fatal.

Her public was very dear to her. She was delighted to meet it here,
face to face, heart to heart. She clasped her own slender hands over
her own heart as she said this, and there was a pathetic little
catch in her voice as she waved farewell kisses to the throng. Many
a heart besides Merton's beat more quickly at knowing that she must
rush out to the high-powered roadster and be off at eighty miles an
hour to St. Louis, where another vast audience would the next day be
breathlessly awaiting her personal appearance.

Merton had felt abundantly repaid for his journey. There had been