that conductor, would have been enough."

"You will make a complaint about that, won't you?" he urged. "Even if it
wasn't on principle that you refused to pay another fare? And let me
back you up in it. I've his number, you know."

"You deserve that, I suppose," she said, "because you did get off the
car on principle. But--well, really, unless we could prove that I did
pay my fare, by some other passenger, you know, they'd probably think
the conductor did exactly right. Of course he took hold of me, but that
was because I was going right by him. And then, think what I did to
him!"

He grumbled that this was nonsense--the man had been guilty at least of
excessive zeal--but he didn't urge her, any further, to complain.

"There's another car coming," he now announced, peering around the end
of the wall. "You will let me pay your fare on it, won't you?"

She hesitated. The rain was thinning. "I would," she said, "if I
honestly wouldn't rather walk. I'm wet through now, and it'll be
pleasanter to--walk a little of it off than to squeeze into that car.
Thanks, really very, very much, though. Don't _you_ miss it." She thrust
out her hand. "Good-by!"

"I can't pretend to think you need an escort to the elevated," he said.
"I saw what you did to the conductor. I haven't the least doubt you
could have thrown him off the car. But I'd--really like it very much if
you would let me walk along with you."

"Why," she said, "of course! I'd like it too. Come along."

CHAPTER III

FREDERICA'S PLAN AND WHAT HAPPENED TO IT

At twenty minutes after seven that evening, Frederica Whitney was about
as nearly dressed as she usually was ten minutes before the hour at
which she had invited guests to dinner--not quite near enough dressed to
prevent a feeling that she had to hurry.

Ordinarily, though, she didn't mind. She'd been an acknowledged beauty
for ten years and the fact had ceased to be exciting. She took it rather
easily for granted, and knowing what she could do if she chose, didn't
distress herself over being lighted up, on occasions, to something a
good deal less than her full candle-power. To Frederica at thirty--or
thereabout--the job of being a radiantly delightful object of regard
lacked the sporting interest of uncertainty; was almost too simple a
matter to bother about.

But to-night the tenseness of her movements and the faint trace of a
wire edge in the tone in which she addressed the maid, revealed the fac