e once over," Mallow agreed. "If she's anybody
in our set, I'll know her."

The dinner had scarcely started when Gray heard his name paged and left
the table. In the lobby Mallow was waiting with a grin upon his face.

"Is that her?" he inquired.

"That is the girl."

"_Girl?_ 'Arline Montague,' eh? Her name is Margie Fulton and she had
her hair up when they built the Union Pacific."

"Nonsense! You're mistaken. She can't be more than twenty-five--thirty
at most."

"A woman can be as young as she wants to be if she'll pay the price.
Margie had her face tucked up two years ago. Cost her five thousand
bucks."

"I--can't believe it."

"You see it every day. Look at the accordion-pleated beauts in the
movies. Why, some of those dolls nursed in the Civil War! Those face
surgeons have ironed the wrinkles out of many a withered peach, and
you're dining with Margie Fulton, the Suicide Blonde. I know her kid."

"Her _what?_" Mallow's hearer gasped.

"Sure. She was married to Bennie Fulton, the jockey, and they had a
boy. Bennie was ruled off in New Orleans and started a gambling house."

"New Orleans! Wait--I'm beginning to remember."

Into Gray's mind came an indistinct memory; the blurred picture of a
race track with its shouting thousands, a crowded betting ring; then,
more clearly, a garish, over-furnished room in a Southern mansion;
clouds of tobacco smoke rising in the cones of bright light above
roulette and poker tables; negro servants in white, with trays; mint
juleps in tall, frosted glasses; a pretty girl with straw-colored
hair--"You're right!" he agreed, finally. "She was a 'come-on.'"

"That's her. She worked the betting ring daytimes and boosted in
Bennie's place at night. Whenever she was caught she suicided. That's
how she got her name."

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"Why, the usual stuff. A bottle of water with a poison label. If a
mullet threatened to call the police, she'd cry, 'You have ruined my
life!' Then with shaking hand she'd pull the old skull bottle and drink
herself to death. Of course, the poor leaping tuna usually got the acid
out of her hand in time to save her. She saw to that."

Gray was laughing silently. "My dear Professor," he confessed, "wisdom,
of a sort, is mine; sometimes I grow weary with the weight of my
experiences and wonder why the world so seldom shows me something new.
But beside you I am as a babe. Tell me, what has become of the
ex-jockey husband?"

"