hrough the manager's, Whitaker drew
him out into the alley. "We'll get a taxi before this mob--"

"But, look here--what business've _you_ got mixing in?"

"Ask Miss Law," said Whitaker, shortly. It had been on the tip of his
tongue to tell the man flatly: "I'm her husband." But he retained wit
enough to deny himself the satisfaction of this shattering rejoinder. "I
know her," he added; "that's enough for the present."

"If you knew her all the time, why didn't you say so?" Max expostulated
with passion.

"I didn't know I knew her--by that name," said Whitaker lamely.

At the entrance to the alley Max paused to listen to the uproar within
his well-beloved theatre.

"I'd give five thousand gold dollars if I hadn't met you this
afternoon!" he groaned.

"It's too late, now," Whitaker mentioned the obvious. "But if I'd
understood, I promise you I wouldn't have come--at least to sit where
she could see me."

He began gently to urge Max toward Broadway, but the manager hung back
like a sulky child.

"Hell!" he grumbled. "I always knew that woman was a Jonah!"

"You were calling her your mascot two hours ago."

"She'll be the death of me, yet," the little man insisted gloomily. He
stopped short, jerking his arm free. "Look here, I'm not going. What's
the use? We'd only row. And I've got my work cut out for me back
there"--with a jerk of his head toward the theatre.

Whitaker hesitated, then without regret decided to lose him. It would be
as well to get over the impending interview without a third factor.

"Very well," he said, beckoning a taxicab in to the curb. "What's the
address?"

Max gave it sullenly.

"So long," he added morosely as Whitaker opened the cab door; "sorry I
ever laid eyes on you."

Whitaker hesitated. "How about that supper?" he inquired. "Is it still
on?"

"How in blazes do I know? Come round to the Beaux Arts and find out for
yourself--same's I'll have to."

"All right," said Whitaker doubtfully. He nodded to the chauffeur, and
jumped into the cab. As they swung away he received a parting impression
of Max, his pose modelled on the popular conception of Napoleon at
Waterloo: hands clasped behind his back, hair in disorder, chin on his
chest, a puzzled frown shadowing his face as he stared sombrely after
his departing guest.

Whitaker settled back and, oblivious to the lights of Broadway streaming
past, tried to think--tried with indifferent success to prepare himself
against the u