"Where's your ticket?" demanded the great stone face on guard.
"I haven't got one, but—"
"Too late anyhow," said the face. "The train's started."
Through the wooden pickets Minot saw the long yellow string of coaches slipping by. He turned to Paddock.
"Oh, very well," he cried, exulting. "Let him go. Come on!"
He dashed back to the carriage that had brought them from the hotel, the driver of which sat in a stupor trying to regain his wits and nonchalance.
"What now?" Paddock wanted to know.
"Get in!" commanded Minot. He pushed his friend on to the musty seat, and followed.
"To the De la Pax," he cried, "as fast as you can go."
"But what the devil's the need of hurrying now?" demanded Paddock.
"All the need in the world," replied Minot joyously. "I'm going to have a talk with Cynthia Meyrick. A little talk—alone."
