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Cynthia clutched her wrap with nervous fingers. If the man had inadvertently entered the wrong carriage, the least he could do was to explain the situation and apologize. But suppose he was drunk? The thought was not reassuring.

“Tell me at once who you are,” she demanded imperiously, “or I will stop the carriage.”

At that instant the driver swung his horses abruptly to the left to avoid an excavation in the street made by the sewer department, and, as the wheels skidded on the slippery asphalt, the man swayed sideways, and fell upon Cynthia. A slight scream escaped her, and she pushed him away, only to have the limp figure again slide back upon her.

He was undoubtedly drunk! Thoroughly alarmed she pushed him upright, and struggled vainly to open the carriage door with her disengaged hand.

With a tremendous jolt, which again deposited the helpless figure on her shoulder, the carriage wheels struck the curb as the horses turned into the driveway leading to the porte-cochère of the Carew residence. As the horses came to a standstill the front door was thrown open, and the negro butler hastened down the short flight of steps.