“In mourning, sir, undoubtedly?”

“Mourning!  No, of course not.  Cannot a lady wear black without being in mourning?” Hugh expostulated sharply.

“Certainly, sir; but generally—­”

Whatever costume the worldly-wise porter would have approved as en regle for a lady, under conditions to his thinking so obviously indiscreet, the description was forestalled by the ingenuous young man, who, dissimilarly apprehensive and oblivious to the innuendo, was heard to grumble: 

“What on earth is the matter with people?  Everybody seems to delight in painting this most delectable of undertakings in the most funereal colors!” and went on anxiously:  “You’re sure you won’t miss, her?”

With an indulgent smile for the youth and inexperience of his patron, and glancing surreptitiously at the size of the bill in his hand, the attendant calmly announced that there was not the faintest possibility of an error.  He took his position a little to the right of and behind Hugh, like an adjutant at dress parade.  Through the ferry rushed the weary, impatient travellers.  Owing to the place Hugh had taken at one side of the run, Grace, at first, did not perceive him.  Anxiety, almost fright, showed in her face; there passed through her a thrill of consternation at the thought that perhaps he had not received her telegram.  The tense figure clasped the travelling-bag convulsively, and her brown eyes flashed a look of alarm over the waiting throng.  Another moment and their gaze met; a voice ringing with happiness assailed her; her heart throbbed again, and the blood rushed back to her troubled face.

Hugh started forward.

“Hello, old man!” came suddenly from out of the crowd, and two heavy bags plunked down on the floor; two strong hands grabbed Hugh by the shoulders and their owner cried out boisterously:  “What in the name of all the gods are you doing here in New York?”

Hugh’s heart was in his mouth.  His blood froze within him.  For, shaking him with the embrace of a playful bear, was his old friend McLane Woods—­his chum at Princeton.

Dazed, and not daring to look up, the entangled man made a wild, imploring gesture to the porter The latter caught it, stepped forward and placed the note in the girl’s hands.

“In case I am held up, go to the Astor.  Will follow,” were the words she read quickly.  With ready wit and only one stealthy glance at the two men, Grace speedily followed in the wake of the too obsequious porter, who placed her in a cab.

“To the Astor!” was the transferred instruction.  The cabman, quick to note the ambiguity in the direction given, prepared, with the subtlety of his kind, for a long drive downtown.

However, the little comedy had not quite escaped attention.  There was a note of banter in the strident voice that again addressed Hugh, the speaker accompanying it with a resounding slap on the back.