He had closed it firmly, even with a bang, when he had got out.
Instantly suspicious, he wrenched the door wide open, switched on the light under the hood, and, with a sharp exclamation, bent quickly forward.

A glove, a woman's glove, a white glove lay on the floor of the car.

Jimmie Dale's pulse leaped suddenly into fierce, pounding beats.

It was HERS! He KNEW that intuitively--knew it as he knew that he breathed.
And that woman he had so leisurely watched as she had disappeared from sight was, must have been--she! He sprang from the car with a jump, his first impulse to dash after her--and checked himself, laughing a little bitterly.

It was too late for that now--he had already let his chance slip through his fingers.
Around the corner was Sixth Avenue, surface cars, the elevated, taxicabs, a multitude of people, any one of a hundred ways in which she could, and would, already have discounted pursuit from him--and, besides, he would not even have been able to recognise her if he saw her! Jimmie Dale's smile was mirthless as he turned back to the car, and picked up the glove.