to move, and I'm in the middle
of packing."

"Of course," said Martin, eager to know why he had been sent for. "It's
about Tootles, you said."

"Very much so." She sat on the edge of the table, crossed her arms, and
deliberately looked Martin over with expert eyes. Knowing as much about
men as a mechanic of a main-road motor-repairing shop knows about
engines, her examination was acute and thorough.

Martin waited quietly, amused at her coolness, but impatient to come to
cues. She was a good sort, he knew. Tootles had told him so, and he was
certain that she had asked to see him out of friendship for the girl
upstairs.

Her first question was almost as disconcerting and abrupt as a Zeppelin
bomb. "What did you do to Tootles?"

Martin held her examining gaze. "Nothing, except give her a bit of a
holiday," he said.

"I saw you go off with her that morning." She smiled and her eyes
became a little more friendly. "She wrote me a letter from your place
and said she'd found out what song writers meant by the word heaven."

"Did she?" said Martin. "I'm glad."

It came to her in a flash that her little pal had fallen in love with
this boy and instantly she understood the mystery of Tootles' change of
method and point of view--her moping, her relaxed grip on life. She
meant almost nothing to the boy and knew it.

"But don't you think you might have been to see her since you brought
her back?" she asked.

"I've been very worried," said Martin simply.

"Is that so?" and then, after another pause, this girl said a second
astonishing thing. "I wish I didn't see in you a man who tells the
truth. I wish you were just one of the ordinary sort that comes our
way. I should know how to deal with you better."

"Tell me what you mean," said Martin.

"Shall I? All right, I will." She stood up with her hands on her hips.
"If you'd played the usual game with little Tootles and dropped her
cold, I wouldn't let you get out of this room without coming up to
scratch. I'd make you cough up a good-sized check. There's such a thing
as playing the game even by us strap-hangers, you know. As it is, I can
see that you were on the square, that you're a bit of a poet or
something and did Tootles a good turn for nothing, and honestly, I
don't know the next move. You don't owe her anything, you see."

"Is money the trouble?" asked Martin.

Irene Stanton shot out an odd, short laugh. "Let me tell you
something," she said. "You know what h