As Martin drew the clothes over her thinly clad shoulder, something
touched him. It was like a tap on the heart. Before he knew what he
was doing, he had turned out the light, gone into the sitting room,
the passage, down the stairs and into the silent street. At top
speed he ran into Sixth Avenue, yelled to a cab that was slipping
along the trolley lines and told the driver to go to East Sixty-
seventh Street for all that he was worth.

Joan wanted him.

Joan!

Joan heard the cab drive up and stop, heard Martin sing out "That's
all right," open and shut the front door and mount the stairs; heard
him go quickly to her room and knock.

She went out and called "Marty, Marty," and stood on the threshold
of his dressing room, smiling a welcome. She was glad, beyond words
glad, and surprised. There had seemed to be no chance of seeing him
that morning.

Martin came along the passage with his characteristic light tread
and drew up short. He looked anxious.

"You wanted me?" he said.

And Joan held out her hand. "I did and do, Marty. But how did you
guess?"