He halted, the knob in his hand. Maggie was standing sidewise to him, holding a telephone in her hand, its receiver at her ear. She must have supposed that it was Miss Grierson who had so quietly entered, for she did not look around. “Yes, I'm still waiting,” she was saying impatiently. “Can't you ever get that connection?” Larry had seen Maggie only in the plain dark suit which she had worn to her daily business of selling cigarettes at the Ritzmore; and once, on the night of his return from Sing Sing, in that stage gypsy costume, which though effective was cheap and impromptu and did not at all lift her out of the environment of the Duchess's ancient and grimy house. But Larry was so startled by this changed Maggie that for the moment he could not have moved from the door even had he so desired. She was accoutered in the smartest of filmy evening gowns, with the short skirt which was then the mode, with high-heeled silver slippers, her rounded arms and shoulders and bosom bare, her abundant black hair piled high in careful carelessness. The gown was cerise in color, and from her forearm hung a great fan of green plumes. In all the hotels and theaters of New York one could hardly have come upon a figure that night more striking in its finished and fresh young womanhood. Larry trembled all over; his heart tried to throb madly up out of his throat. At length he spoke. And all he was able to say was: “Maggie.” She whirled about, and telephone and receiver almost fell from her hands. She went pale, and stared at him, her mouth agape, her dark eyes wide. “La-Larry!” she whispered. “Maggie!” he said again. “La-Larry! I thought you were in Chicago.” “I'm here now, Maggie--especially to see you.” He did not know it, but his voice was husky. He noted that she was still holding the telephone and receiver. “It was I who put in that long-distance call. But I came instead. So you might as well hang up.” She obeyed, and set the instrument upon its little table. “Larry--where have you been all this while?” He was now conscious enough to note that there was tense concern in her manner. He exulted at it, and crossed and took her hand. “Right here in New York, Maggie.” “In hiding?” “In mighty good hiding.” “But, Larry--don't you know it's dangerous for you to come out? And to come here of all places?” “I couldn't help myself. I simply had to see you, Maggie.” He was still holding her hand, and there was an instinctive grip of her fingers about his. For a moment--the moment during which her outer or more conscious self was startled into forgetfulness--they gazed at each other silently and steadily, eye into eye. And then the things the Duchess had said crept back into his mind, and he said: “Maggie, I've come to take you out of all this. Get ready--let's leave at once.”