going was bad, and now, thank
God, we've arrived."

The taxi' drew up before the door of the house where Maxwell had his
quarters. It was a dingy building which has harbored under its roof the
beginnings of a half-dozen literary reputations.

"Bobby," said the young woman suddenly, "have you any Scotch in your
rooms?"

He reflected.

"I believe there's some Bourbon left in the bottle," he admitted.

"'Twill have to do," she said with a grimace. "I believe I'll climb the
steps and have a highball. We ought to toast the piece, you know. It's
been good to us."

"I thought you were too tired," suggested the author in surprise. "We
might have stopped where they had champagne."

"I didn't want wine. But I need a quiet little chat to work off this
nervousness."

In his sitting-room Bobby announced, "I've got to pack. I'm leaving in
the morning. Deprayne will entertain you with traveler's tales."

Miss Bristol paused with her hands raised and her hatpins half drawn.
Her face, for a moment, clouded.

"Where are you going?"

"Out west for a month or two."

"Oh," she said slowly. "What's the idea? Girl?"

He shook his head.

"Rest," he enlightened. "I'm tired."

The smile came again to her lips.

"Oh, very well," she said. "Get out your bag. I'll help you pack it."

Maxwell went in search of glasses and bottles.

A shaded lamp on the table left the corners of the book-lined walls in
shadow. In the open fireplace a bank of coals glowed redly. The young
woman took her place before it on the Spanish-leather cushions of a
divan, drawing her feet under her and nestling snugly back with her
hands clasped behind her head. Her lips were parted in a smile and her
eyes, fixed on the coals, were deep with reflection. The face became
again the face of a young girl, bearing no trace of the experience which
had made up ten years of war with Broadway. To me she paid not the
slighted attention. Shortly he returned and handed us glasses. She
raised hers, smiling.

"To you," she said--"the author!"

They clinked rims.

"To you," he gravely responded,--"the star!"

After that neither of them spoke, until the girl broke the silence with
a laugh.

"Some day, Bobby" she asserted, "you must tell me the story you haven't
dramatized--the story of your life."

"Why do you think it would prove interesting?"

She regarded him for a time with close scrutiny.

"Well, I don't quite get you, Bobby. You are rather a riddle in