it as a combined theatrical performance, Clarence preferred to wait for
Susy as the better actor. The carriage rolled rapidly through the now
deserted streets, and at last, under the directions of Mr. Hooker,
who was leaning half out of the window, it drew up at a middle-class
restaurant, above whose still lit and steaming windows were some
ostentatiously public apartments, accessible from a side entrance. As
they ascended the staircase together, it became evident that Mr. Hooker
was scarcely more at his ease in the character of host than he had been
as guest. He stared gloomily at a descending visitor, grunted audibly
at a waiter in the passage, and stopped before a door, where a recently
deposited tray displayed the half-eaten carcase of a fowl, an empty
champagne bottle, two half-filled glasses, and a faded bouquet. The
whole passage was redolent with a singular blending of damp cooking,
stale cigarette smoke, and patchouli.

Putting the tray aside with his foot, Mr. Hooker opened the door
hesitatingly and peered into the room, muttered a few indistinct words,
which were followed by a rapid rustling of skirts, and then, with his
hand still on the door-knob, turning to Clarence, who had discreetly
halted on the threshold, flung the door open theatrically and bade him
enter.

"She is somewhere in the suite," he added, with a large wave of the hand
towards a door that was still oscillating. "Be here in a minit."

Clarence took in the apartment with a quiet glance. Its furniture had
the frayed and discolored splendors of a public parlor which had
been privately used and maltreated; there were stains in the large
medallioned carpet; the gilded veneer had been chipped from a heavy
centre table, showing the rough, white deal beneath, which gave it the