dirty flannel trousers. The marks of
last night's grease paint were on his temples and eyebrows. He hummed a
little song to the accompaniment of sizzling bacon.

When Martin knocked on the door of the apartment of the girl to whom he
had never spoken except over the telephone and whose name he remembered
to be Irene Stanton, a high-pitched, nasal voice cried out.

"Come right in." He went right in and was charged at by a half-bred
Chow whose bark was like a gunman's laugh, and a tiny pink beast which
worked itself into a state of hysterical rage. But when a high-heeled
shoe was flung at them from the bedroom, followed by a volley of
fruit-carrier words of the latest brand, they retired, awed and
horror-stricken, to cover.

Martin found himself in a small, square living room with two windows
looking over the intimate backs of other similar houses. Under the best
of conditions it was not a room of very comfortable possibilities. In
the hands of its present occupant, it was, to Martin's eyes, the most
depressing and chaotic place he had ever seen. The cheap furniture and
the cheaper wall paper went well with a long-unwhite-washed ceiling and
smudged white paint. A line of empty beer bottles which stood on a
mantelpiece littered with unframed photographs and dog-eared Christmas
cards struck a note so blase that it might almost have been committed
for a reason. On the square mission table in the center there was a
lamp with a belaced pink shade at a cock-eyed angle which resembled the
bonnet of a streetwalker in the early hours of the morning. An electric
iron stood coldly beneath it with its wire attached to a fixture in the
wall. Various garments littered the chairs and sofa, and jagged pieces
of newspaper which had been worried by the dogs covered the floor.

But the young woman who shortly made her appearance was very different
from the room. Her frock was neat and clean, her face most carefully
made up, her shoes smart. She had a wide and winning grin, teeth that
should have advertised a toothpaste, and a pair of dimples which ought
to have been a valuable asset to any chorus. "Why, but you HAVE done a
hustle," she said. "I haven't even had time to tidy up a bit." She
cleared a chair and shook a finger at the dogs, who, sneaking out from
under the sofa, were eyeing her with apprehensive affection. The Chow's
mother had evidently lost her heart to a bulldog. "Excuse the look of
this back attic," she added. "I've got