The two had the table opposite him. As the wheels raced over a culvert
to the comparative quiet of the ballasted track beyond, the words of
the man reached Clay.

". . . and we'll have all day to see the city, kid."

Kitty shook her head. There was hesitation in her manner, and the man
was quick to make the most of it. She wanted to stay, wanted to skip a
train and let this competent guide show her Chicago. But somewhere,
deep in her consciousness, a bell of warning was beginning to ring.
Some uneasy prescience of trouble was sifting into her light heart.
She was not so sure of her fairy tale, a good deal less sure of her
prince.

A second time the song of the rails lifted from a heavy, rumbling bass
to a lighter note, and again a snatch of words drifted across the diner.

". . . the time of your young life, honey."

The girl was crumbling a bread ball with her fingers as a vent to her
restless excitement. The heavy hand of the man moved across the table
and rested on hers. "And it won't cost you a cent, girlie," the New
Yorker added.

But the long lashes of the girl lifted and her baby-blue eyes met his
with shy reproach. "I don't think I ought," she breathed, color
sweeping her face in a vivid flame.

"You should worry," he scoffed.