est as De Luxe Dora, unaccompanied for once,
swept into the place. Dora was gorgeously and flashily dressed and
fairly scintillated with jewels. She seated herself not far from the
door and ordered a cocktail. Then she whistled a bar of music
suggestively to the piano-player, who immediately caught it, and the
"orchestra" with a show of animation strummed out her suggestion. She
sent over drinks for them and was rewarded with more song hits.

Jauntily now Paul came in. A couple of men roused themselves and
slouched over to him. They held a whispered conversation, and Paul was
insistent on some point. He evidently had his way, for the men slunk
back to their places and, sprawling out, were in a moment as listless as
before.

Paul nodded to Dora in greeting, but she turned her back. He gave a low
whistle of astonishment and went over to her.

"Say, Dora, why the grouch?" he asked.

For a moment she disdained to answer and glared at him witheringly. Then
she blurted out, "You're throwing me down for that baby face with the
money!"

Paul gave a short laugh and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be silly," he
laughed. "She'll be our meal-ticket."

He sat down, and over a couple more cocktails he had Dora quite
mollified.

A few moments later Locke entered and slipped quickly into a chair,
since he did not wish to be seen. In his hand he carried a newspaper
which he now unfolded and held up in front of him so that it hid his
face. Next he poked a hole through the center of the sheet so that he
could see without being seen.

At this moment, seemingly in all earnestness, Paul and Dora resumed
their quarrel, and Dora's strident voice echoed through the cafe.

"If you throw me down you'd better look out," she bawled.

Paul jumped up, and for a moment it looked as though he would strike
her. But he changed his mind, cursed her, and finally stalked out of the
cafe.

Locke folded his paper, paid his bill to the sleepy waiter, and started
after Paul. At the entrance he stopped, thought a moment, and then went
directly to Dora's table and sat down.

"Why, what are you doing here?" she gasped, in great surprise. "Don't
you know that you may be _killed_?"

"It's a risk that I must run," replied Locke. "But tell me--you tried to
kill me once--why?"

"Because I was a fool, controlled by my love for Paul Balcom--the beast!
I hate him!"

Dora drank viciously, then, with jealous venom, leaned over to Locke,
and asked, "If th