“The poor girl was hysterical from nervous strain over her first public appearance. She could not have intended to give such rein to her impulses as--as---- Of course, a woman who will exhibit herself in such a rôle is not exactly---- Well, I’ll not go into that. But I owe it to myself to say that even I, experienced at judging women by their face values, would not have believed our guileless-looking Dolores Trent capable of a deliberate attempt to compromise an employer who----” “_Cad!_” At the interruption, Seff took a backward step, evidently remembering the reach and force of the speaker’s punch. John Cabot, with a frown, stayed the three women and lone man who, having been given the all-important name of the woman in the case, were on the point of taking wing. “Best give a minute,” he advised. “You haven’t got the real story yet. This sale is a fake. The goods were manufactured in Seff’s own sweatshops right here in New York. The money was taken under false pretenses. I am not in position to state just how usual among supposedly high-class shops is the sort of indelicacy we’ve witnessed this morning. Fortunately, however, I am able to make an example of this instance. I am John Cabot. I ask you to investigate.” “I have heard enough of this contemptible attack, no matter who or what you are.” Seff hurled himself into the breach as bravely as his condition would permit. “Nothing but respect for the feelings of your wife has kept me from having you ejected before this. You cannot influence the newspapers against us. We are, as you should know, persistent advertisers. I ask you now to go quietly and at once, before I----” For a moment it seemed that his advice had been accepted. John Cabot turned and crossed to the rim of the stage. There he lifted his hand to the lingering society contingent. “I have sent for the police,” he said. “They’ll be here any minute now. They have a habit, I’m told, of taking the names of eye-witnesses. Subpoenas generally arrive at elsewhere-essential moments, so I’d suggest that such of you as have any important engagements for the near future----” He had said enough. The remaining “valued patrons” broke the leash of curiosity and hurried away after the example of the “thoroughbred” Mrs. Cabot. Be it added that they waited not for the elevator, nor counted the steps in the flight of their descent. For diverse reasons, a group remained with John Cabot during his brief wait for the detectives of the nearby Tenderloin police station. The reporters stayed because of the “realer” crux of the story explaining the scream of a shopgirl; Mrs. Hutton because, as she had asserted, she dared not desert Seff; the owner himself because of the competent look of a golf-steeled right, swinging from an arm whose length and strength he knew.