ed Fyfe's possession of her; that she was merely an added
factor in the breaking out of a struggle for mastery between two
diverse and dominant men. Every sign and token went to show that the pot
of hate had long been simmering. She had only contributed to its boiling
over.

"Oh, well," she sighed, "it's out of my hands altogether now. I'm sorry,
but being sorry doesn't make any difference. I'm the least factor, it
seems, in the whole muddle. A woman isn't much more than an incident in
a man's life, after all."

She dressed to go to the Charteris, for her day's work was about to
begin. As so often happens in life's uneasy flow, periods of calm are
succeeded by events in close sequence. Howard and his wife insisted that
Stella join them at supper after the show. They were decent folk who
accorded frank admiration to her voice and her personality. They had
been kind to her in many little ways, and she was glad to accept.

At eleven a taxi deposited them at the door of Wain's. The Seattle of
yesterday needs no introduction to Wain's, and its counterpart can be
found in any cosmopolitan, seaport city. It is a place of subtle
distinction, tucked away on one of the lower hill streets, where
after-theater parties and nighthawks with an eye for pretty women, an
ear for sensuous music, and a taste for good food, go when they have
money to spend.

Ensconced behind a potted palm, with a waiter taking Howard's order,
Stella let her gaze travel over the diners. She brought up with a
repressed start at a table but four removes from her own, her eyes
resting upon the unmistakable profile of Walter Monohan. He was dining
vis-a-vis with a young woman chiefly remarkable for a profusion of
yellow hair and a blazing diamond in the lobe of each ear,--a plump,
blond, vivacious person of a type that Stella, even with her limited
experience, found herself instantly classifying.

A bottle of wine rested in an iced dish between them. Monohan was toying
with the stem of a half-emptied glass, smiling at his companion. The
girl leaned toward him, speaking rapidly, pouting. Monohan nodded,
drained his glass, signaled a waiter. When she got into an elaborate
opera cloak and Monohan into his Inverness, they went out, the plump,
jeweled hand resting familiarly on Monohan's arm. Stella breathed a sigh
of relief as they passed, looking straight ahead. She watched through
the upper half of the cafe window and saw a machine draw against the
curb, saw