“Fifty-four!” the footman through his megaphone for the sixth time, and he his umbrella to protect his face from the driving rain which half-blinded him. A waiting , whose had mistaken the number called, moved slowly off and gave place to a carriage and pair.  
“Fifty-four,” the coachman, checking his horses with difficulty.
 
The footman turned, touched his hat, and 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.
 
“In with you,” laughed Lane, as his umbrella was almost dragged from his hand by the high wind. “Your wrap is too pretty to be ruined....” Cynthia was half lifted, half pushed inside the landau.... “Good night, my dearest.”
 
The door slammed shut; the horses, weary of long , started forward at the sound and raced around the corner into Massachusetts Avenue before the sleepy coachman could collect his wits.
 
Cynthia, on the point of seating herself, was flung toward the farther corner of the carriage by the sudden jerk. she threw out her hand to steady herself, and her open palm encountered what was unmistakably a broad shoulder.
 
“Good gracious!” and sideways on the seat. “Philip! How you frightened me.”
 
Then she settled herself more comfortably and, with an effort, chatted on.
 
“The dance really was great fun, just our set you know, some of the Diplomatic , and a number of the officers from the Barracks. I hated to leave so early,” regretfully, “but I promised Uncle James. Mrs. Owen asked particularly for you, and was greatly put out because you did not appear. Honestly, Philip, I am very tired of trying to explain your sudden aversion to society. Why do you your friends?”
 
Not getting an answer she repeated her question more emphatically. Still no reply. The silence caught her attention. Turning her head she scanned the quiet figure by her side.
 
The rain, which beat upon the carriage roof and windows, almost drowned the sound of rapid hoof-beats. The high wind had extinguished the carriage lamps and the dim street lights failed to the interior of the rapidly moving carriage. In the semi-darkness Cynthia could not distinguish her companion’s face.
 
“It is you, Philip?” she questioned sharply, and waited an moment; then a thought occurred to her. “Uncle James, are you trying to play a practical joke?” Her voice rose to a higher key.
 
Her question was ignored.
 
Cynthia caught her breath sharply. Suppose the man was a stranger? She shrank farther back into her corner. If so, how came he there? Intently she studied the vague outlines of his figure.
 
The landau was an old-fashioned vehicle built after a pattern by a past generation, and frequently used by Senator Carew on stormy nights, as the two broad seats would accommodate five or six persons by tight squeezing.
 
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 .
 
“Tell me at once who you are,” she demanded imperiously, “or I will stop the carriage.”
 
At that instant the driver swung his horses to the left to avoid an in the street made by the department, and, as the wheels 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 drunk! alarmed she pushed him upright, and struggled vainly to open the carriage door with her disengaged hand.
 
With a tremendous , which again deposited the helpless figure on her shoulder, the carriage wheels struck the 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.
 
Cynthia, with one desperate effort, flung the man back into his corner and, as the butler turned the stiff handle and opened the door, half jumped, half fell out of the landau.
 
“A man’s in the carriage, Joshua,” she cried. “See who it is.”
 
The servant looked at her in surprise, then obediently his head inside the open door. Unable to see clearly he drew back and in his pocket for a matchbox.
 
“Keep dem hosses still, Hamilton,” he directed, as the coachman leaned down from his seat, and then he pulled out a match. “Miss Cynthia, yo’ bettah go der house,” glancing at the young girl’s pale , “I’ll ’ten to dis hyar pusson.”
 
But Cynthia remained where she was and peeped over the butler’s shoulder. He struck a match and held it in the hollow of his hand until the tiny flame grew brighter, then leaned forward and gazed into the carriage.
 
The intruder was in the corner, his head thrown back, and the light fell on a livid face and was reflected back from eyes. Cynthia’s knees gave way, and she sank speechless to the ground.
 
“’Fore Gawd!” Joshua, “it’s Marse James—an’ he’s daid!”