When the fearsome thing stopped she had the sensation that her head alone had arrived, the rest had been shed on the way, but in a large open space furnished with roll-top desks and typewriters and men and girls she was looked at as though nothing unusual had happened.

“A letter of introduction for Mr. Burritt?” repeated a young man with a whimsical expression.  “I’m afraid you’ll have to go higher up to deliver it.”

“I thought I’d got to the top,” said Win.  “Or”—­and she tried to catch the office note of sprightliness—­“does he inhabit a roof garden?”

The young man smiled.  “He used to be fond of them after office hours.  But not being a spiritualist, I haven’t heard from him concerning his present habits.”

“He is—­dead?”

“That’s about it,” said the young man.  “A year ago.  But he was only our city editor, so maybe he didn’t get a black border in your English papers.”

Miss Child did not ask how one knew that she was English.  She recovered herself, thought of taking leave, and then decided not to be precipitate.  Instead, she inquired if she could see any other editor.

“Which other have you got a letter to?” the young man temporized.

“None.  But—–­”

“Then I’m afraid it’s no use without an appointment.  Anyhow, this isn’t the right hour to snapshot editors of daily papers.  They’re night-blooming flowers.  Would you like to try for an appointment with Mr. Shaw, Burritt’s successor?”

Win thanked him, but thought it would be no use.  She would have liked to walk down, only there seemed to be no stairs.  A merry youth who ran the nearest elevator asked if she would care to use the fire-escape.

The address of Mr. Noble, the organist, was that of a private house.  It was a far cry from To-day and To-morrow, up in the hundreds, and Miss Hampshire had told Miss Child to take the elevated.  Easier said than done.  You could go up the steps and reach a platform on top of the improved Roman viaduct, but there were so many other people intent on squeezing through the iron gate and onto the uptown train—­people far more indomitable than yourself—­that nothing happened except the slam, slam of that gate in your face.

At last, however, Miss Child was borne along with a rush from behind and found herself swinging back and forth like a pendulum on a strap which she clutched wildly.  Men in America were supposed to jump up and give women their seats, but there were no men in this train.  It was peopled with women who had been shopping, and who carried bundles.  Many went on so far that Win began to believe they were taking a jaunt for fun, especially as they did not seem at all tired, but chewed something unremittingly with an air of calm delight.  This was, perhaps, what Americans called a “joy ride!”

There seemed to be no end to New York, and vistas of cross streets looked so much alike that Win did not wonder they were named only with numbers.  She wanted One Hundred and Thirty-Third Street, and Mr. Noble’s house was a long way from the elevated station.  When she found it at last it was only to learn that six months ago the organist had accepted a position in Chicago.  And New York seemed twice as big, twice as absent-minded, when both letters of introduction had failed.