It was with a great deal of interest tempered by fear that we
dropped into the cabaret the following evening. Fortunately no one
suspected us. In fact, having been there the night before, we had
established ourselves, as it were, and were welcomed as old
patrons and good spenders.

I noticed, however, that Whitecap was not there. The story had
been read by such of the dope fiends as had not fallen too far to
keep abreast of the times and these and the waiters were busy
quietly warning off a line of haggard-eyed, disappointed patrons
who came around, as usual.

Some of them were so obviously dependent on Whitecap that I almost
regretted having written the story, for they must have been
suffering the tortures of the damned.

It was in the midst of a reverie of this sort that a low
exclamation from Kennedy recalled my attention. There was Snowbird
with a man considerably older than herself. They had just come in
and were looking about frantically for Whitecap. But Whitecap had
been too frightened by the story in the Star to sell any more of
the magic happy dust openly in the cabaret, at least.

The pair, nerve-racked and exhausted, sat down mournfully in a
seat near us, and as they talked earnestly in low tones we had an
excellent opportunity for studying Armstrong for the first time.

He was not a bad-looking man, or even a weak one. In back of the
dissipation of the drugs one fancied he could read the story of a
brilliant life wrecked. But there was little left to admire or