"What is your name?" demanded Hugh suddenly.

"Friend."

"I understand all that. But what is your name?"

"That's it--George Friend--Street Station."

"Oh, I see." Hugh also saw the picture of this poor fellow as he stood
before his superior later on with his luckless tale, facing a
thirty-days' lay-off at the lowest. "By the way, I want to write a short
note." He secured envelope, paper and stamp from the bar and hastily
wrote a brief letter. The inscription on the outside of the envelope was
"George Friend,--Police Station, New York," and there were three
one-hundred-dollar bills inclosed with the note of explanation. "I'll
mail it later," he said. "Come on."

They went forth into the rain, Hugh's blood leaping with excitement, the
plain-clothes man shivering as if he were congealing. Mr. Ridgeway
dashed across the pavement and peered into the cab. Grace was not there,
just as he had hoped and expected.

"The lady's in the drug-store below, sir," announced the cabman.

"Wait here" called Hugh to the plain-clothes man. "I'm afraid she's ill.
She's gone to the drug-store." He hurried toward the drug-store as the
officer began to question the driver. A second later Mr. Ridgeway turned
the corner and was off like the wind toward Sixth Avenue. Turning into
an alley, he fled southward, chuckling to himself as he splashed through