Presently somebody in the party suggested a round of the bohemian joints. The motion was noisily seconded... Fred staggered to his feet. They began with the uptown tenderloin, drifting in due time through the Greek cafes on Third Street. Finally they crossed Market Street and began to chatter into the tawdry dance halls of upper Kearny. Everywhere the drinks flowed in covert streams, growing viler and more nauseous as the pilgrimage advanced. Near Jackson Street they came upon a bedraggled pavilion of dubious gayety which lured them downstairs with its ear-splitting jazz orchestra. A horde of rapacious females descended upon them like starving locusts. Suddenly everybody in the party seemed moved with a desire for dancing--except Fred. While the others whirled away he sank into a seat, staring vacantly ahead. He had reached the extreme point of his drunkenness and he was pulling toward sobriety again... He came out of his tentative stupor with the realization that a woman was seating herself opposite him. "What's your name?" he demanded, thickly. "Ginger," she replied. He took a sharper look. A pale, somewhat freckled face, topped by a glory of fading red hair, thrust itself rather wistfully forward for his inspection. "Go 'way!" he waved, disconsolately. "Go 'way. I don't wanna dance!" She smiled with the passive resistance of her kind. "Neither do I," she assented. "Let's just sit here and talk." "Don't wanna talk!" he threw back, sullenly. "All right," she agreed; "anything you say... Got a cigarette?" He drew out a box and she selected one. The waiter hovered about significantly. Fred ordered coffee ... Ginger took Whiterock. They were silent. The music crashed and banged and whinnied, and the air grew thick with the mingled odors of smoke and stale drinks and sex. Finally Fred leaned forward and said in a whisper, "Tell me--has a snaky-looking dub come into this joint?" Ginger swept the room with her glance. "In a gray derby and a green tie?" "Yes." "He's over in the corner--talking to a couple of fly cops." He reached for a cigarette himself. His voice was becoming steadier. "What do you think his game is?" She pursed her lips. "Oh, I guess he's a private detective," she appraised, shrewdly. "He isn't quite heavy enough for a real bull." He struck a match. "He's been following me all day," he admitted. "Somebody's keeping tab, eh?... Is friend wife on the trail?" He laughed tonelessly and cast the match aside. The sharp little face opposite was quickening with interest. "No ... I let a bad check get out... _You_ know--no funds." "Whew!" escaped her. "That isn't pretty!" "You're damned right it isn't!" he echoed, emphatically. She clutched at his wrist. "Say, the whole three are coming this way... I guess they've got a warrant... Don't fight back, whatever you do!" Her words sobered him. She was right--three men were coming toward his table. He rose with a flourish of dignity. "Looking for me?" he asked.