abode here
and would receive him. As he opened the door, Dorothy Melliss was
bending over her drawing-board by a north window, rushing through some
fashion illustrations which must be delivered on the morrow. She greeted
Paul with a nod and went on with her work, while he explained his
mission.

Dorothy was a wholesome young person of clear complexion and
straightforward eyes and she spoke with an independence of manner
amounting to slanginess. She was one of those girls whom an unaided life
in the city fosters. She could take care of herself--and did--but she
knew life and looked it in the face--and dispensed with anything like a
baby stare in doing so. Now she listened to Paul's talk, then suddenly
shoved back her India-ink bottle and wiped her pen, while her pupils
met his with directness.

"Before I answer any of your questions, Mr. Burton, I've got a few to
ask you myself," she announced. "I might as well talk straight from the
shoulder. Just how anxious you are to see Marcia isn't going to make
such a great difference in my young life. Whether or not she wants you
to find her--does make a great deal of difference."

"What do you mean, Miss Melliss?" Paul was genuinely puzzled.

"I mean that of course I know her address--or addresses--because they
change every day. I also know that she gave me the most explicit orders
not to tell you where she could be found."

"Oh!" he exclaimed in disappointment, relinquishing his inquiry at the
first obstacle. "Then I suppose I may as well go."

"Hold on," she commanded tersely. "I'm Marcia Terroll's friend. I think
I'm enough her friend to decide for myself whether I can help her most
by obeying or disobeying her. Sit down for five minutes and listen to
me. I feel like talking."

He obeyed, and the young woman's face flushed with her interest as she
took a chair near him and lighted a cigarette. After that she sat for a
few moments reflectively silent.

"I guess there isn't so much similarity between Marcia and me, but
there's one thing--and it's a bond of kinship in a way." She looked at
him unwaveringly. "We've both been on our own for some time in a town
where there are more Don Juans than Walter Raleighs--and we're both
straight. To the women of _your_ protected set that wouldn't be so much
to brag of--about as much as for a millionaire to boast that he'd never
picked a pocket. None of those sheltered girls in your own world, where
women nibble at life like bon-b