"Jimmie, it is half-past eleven now--HURRY." He whirled, scanning wildly this face, then that.

It was her voice--HER voice! The Tocsin! The sensitive fingers were telegraphing to his brain, as they always did, that the texture of the envelope, too, was hers.
Her voice; yes, anywhere, out of a thousand voices, he would distinguish hers--but her face, he had never seen that.

Which, out of all the crowd around him, was hers?
Surely he could tell her by her dress; she would be different; her personality alone must single her out.

She-- "Say, have youse got de pip, or do youse t'ink youse owns de earth!" a man flung at him, heaving and pushing to get by.
With a start, though he scarcely heard the man, Jimmie Dale moved on.
His brain was afire.

All the irony of the world seemed massed in a sudden, overwhelming attack upon him.