Nedra | Page 8

and there followed from his employer a minute
description of the lady.
"Young, slight, tall, fair, black hat and veil, and--"
"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
régle_ 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.
"Congratulations in order, old man? Come--you're caught--own up!
Who is she?" This with a crony-like dig in the ribs. "Runaway match,
eh?"
At the other's greeting, Ridgeway promptly assured himself that all was
lost, and was about to return the welcome as best he could, when the
danger in the final words checked him, compelled a subterfuge.
Assuming a stony glare, an unnatural twist of the mouth, the "old man"
turned his bewildered glance upon the speaker, allowing it to resolve
itself into a sickening show of reproachfulness, and said in a voice that
almost made its owner laugh, it was so villainously artificial:
"You have the best of me, sir!"
An amazed expression came over the face of Mr. Woods. His glowing
smile dwindled into an incredulous stare.
"Don't you know me, Hugh?" he finally demanded, half indignantly.
"I do not, sir. My name is not Hugh, by the way. It is evident that you
mistake me for some one else," answered Mr. Ridgeway solemnly and
gutturally.
"Do you mean to say--oh, come now, old man, don't stand up there and
try to make a monkey of me. When did you get in?" cried Woods.
"Pardon me," sharply responded the other, "but I must insist that you
are mistaken. I am Dr. James Morton of Baltimore. The resemblance
must be remarkable."
Woods glared at Hugh, perfectly dumb with amazement. He passed his
hand over his eyes, cleared his throat a time or two, but seemed
completely at a loss for words to express himself.

"Are you in earnest?" he stammered. "Are you not Hugh Ridgeway of
Princeton, ninety--" but Hugh interrupted him politely.
"Assuredly not. Never was at Princeton in my life. Yale. Will you give
me your name and the address of your friend, please? By Jove,