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“Let me have it.”
“Si, Señor, con mucho gusto.” He quickly handed the paper to the Colombian.
The American looked over his companion’s shoulder as the latter adjusted his eyeglasses and held up the visiting card so that both could see its contents. With staring eyes and faces gone white they read the engraved inscription:
MR. JAMES CAREW
MARYLAND.
CHAPTER II
AFTER THE BALL
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“Fifty-four!” bellowed the footman through his megaphone for the sixth time, and he slanted his umbrella to protect his face from the driving rain which half-blinded him. A waiting automobile, whose chauffeur had mistaken the number called, moved slowly off and gave place to a carriage and pair.
“Fifty-four,” mumbled the coachman, checking his restive horses with difficulty.
The footman turned, touched his hat, and beckoned to Cynthia Carew, who stood waiting in the vestibule. With a rueful glance at the wet sidewalk, she gathered her skirts up above her ankles and, propelled by the sturdy arm of her escort, Captain Lane, was landed breathless at the carriage door.