intrigued and more than half inclined
to see the affair through to the end.

His confused reverie was presently interrupted by the sound of the
woman's high, clear voice at a telephone located (he fancied)
somewhere in the hallway of the second story.

"Hello! Columbus, seven, four hundred, please.... Hello--Mason?...
Taxicab, please--Mrs. Jefferson Inche.... Yes--charge....
Yes--immediately.... Thank you!"

A moment later she reappeared on the stairs, carrying a wrap of some
sort over her arm: a circumstance which caused P. Sybarite uneasily to
wonder if she meant to push her notorious indifference to convention
to the limit of going out in a taxicab with no other addition to her
airy costume than a cloak.

But when she again entered the "den," it proved to be a man's coat and
soft hat that she had found for him.

"Get up," she ordered imperiously, "and change to these before you get
pinched for impersonating an officer. I've called a taxi for you, and
this is what I want you to do: go to Dutch House--that's a dive on
Fortieth Street--"

"I've heard of it," nodded P. Sybarite. "Any sober man who stays away
from it is almost perfectly safe, I believe."

"I'll back you to take care of yourself," said the lady. "Ask for Red
November.... You know who he is?"

"The gangster? Yes."

"If he isn't in, wait for him if you wait till daylight--"

"Important as all that, eh?"

"It's life or death to me," said Mrs. Inche serenely. "I've got to
have protection--you've seen yourself how had I need it. And the
police are not for the likes of me. Besides," she added with engaging
candour, "if I squeal and tell the truth, then friend husband will be
disinherited for sure, and I'll have had all my trouble for nothing."

"You make it perfectly clear, Mrs. Inche.... And when I see Mr. Red
November--?"

"Say to him three words: _Nella wants you_. He'll understand. Then you
can go home."

"_If_ I get out alive."

"You're safe if you don't drink anything there."

"Doubtless; but I'll feel safer if you'll lend me the loan of this
pretty toy," said P. Sybarite, weighing in one hand her automatic
pistol.

"It's yours."

"Anything in it?"

"Three shots left, I believe. No matter. I'll get you a handful of
cartridges and you can reload the clip in the taxicab. Not that you're
likely to need it at Dutch House."

From the street rose the rumble of a motor, punctuated by a horn that
honked.

"There's the cab, now," anno