sonable enough. I'll do what I
can."

"I don't make extravagant demands, you see," the young man spread down
and out his hands, quivering with exaggerated feeling; "I ask only for
decent treatment, what my own self-respect ab-so-lute-ly demands."

Morena put a hand on his shoulder and walked beside him.

"Did you ever stop to think," he said with his charming smile, "that
the other fellow is thinking and saying just the same thing? Now, this
chap that has, as you put it, got your goat, why, he came to me
himself this morning, and, word for word, he said of you just
precisely what you have just said of him to me. Odd, isn't it?"

Again the young actor stopped for one of his gestures, hands up this
time. "But, my God, sir! Is there such a thing as honesty? He couldn't
accuse me of--"

"Well, he thought he could. However, I do get your point of view and I
think we can fix it up for you so that you'll get off with your
self-respect entirely intact. I'll talk to George to-morrow. You're
worth the bother. Good-afternoon."

The young man bowed, his air of tragic injury softened to one of
tragic self-appreciation. Worth the bother, indeed!

Morena left him at the top of the dingy stairs down which the manager
fled to an alley at one side of the theater, where his car was waiting
for him. He stood for a while with his foot on the step and his hand
on the door, looking rather blankly at the gray, cold wall and the
scurrying whirlwinds of dust and paper.

"Drop yourself at the garage, Ned," he said, "and I'll take the car."

He climbed in beside the wheel. He was very tired, but he had
remembered that Jane West, when he had last seen her, had worn a look
of profound discouragement. She never complained, but when he saw that
particular expression he was frightened and the responsibility for her
came heavily upon him. This wild thing he had brought to New York must
not be allowed to beat its head dumbly against the bars.

When he had got rid of his driver, he turned the car northward, and a
few minutes later Mathilde, the French maid chosen by Betty, opened
Jane's door to him.

While he took off his coat he looked along the hall and saw its owner
sitting, her chin propped on a latticework of fingers. She was gazing
out of the window. It was a beautiful, desperate silhouette; something
fateful in the long, still pose and the fixed look. She was still
dressed in street clothes as when she had left the theater, a blouse
a