Dolores Trent, subject of the sketch, was recommended to the reader’s interest as the principal in a lingerie shop scandal reported in detail in another column. That the incident was to be made the cause of a reform in the use of human merchandise was promised in a spirited interview with John Cabot, noted financier, who had preferred a charge of assault against Vincent Seff, the offending shopkeeper. In the column referred to, the girl found a detailed report of the impromptu scene which had followed the playlet of “The Little Old Lady of Lorraine,” a paragraph of speculation upon her own disappearance and another which declared that the beautiful Mrs. John Cabot was confined to her home in a state of nervous collapse because of the notoriety brought on the family by her husband’s behavior. Dolores crumpled the newspaper and threw it into the self-service trash basket. She had better cause to relinquish it than the over-fat god! Out upon the street, she foresaw other relinquishments. Small use was there for her to seek employment until to-day’s news had passed into the discard of several yesterdays. Doubtless this story, rather than direct word from the Seff shop, had brought about the morning’s summary eviction. Well might she expect to remain roomless until a lapse of time had lessened chances of comparison between her face and the sketch. More harm than help had been worked by the volunteer protectorate of Mr. John Cabot, who unfortunately was of social importance or he would not have been given such space in the news. And that imagined kiss which had soothed her slumbers in the pristine dawn--why its false assurance of security? Was it fancy or fact that people were staring at her? Probably she did look strange. Well-dressed young girls did not saunter, traveling bags in hand. Not noting in what direction, she hastened her steps. She must appear to be bound somewhere, as if to meet someone. In truth, she was. She felt her arm seized in a strong grip; heard a voice in brogue reproving her. “Battlin’ bantham, woman, where’d you get it so early in the mornin’--or was it, now, so late last night?” In cross-cutting a juncture of car-tracks already congested, Dolores had tripped and been forcefully thrown into the arms of a policeman. As he escorted her toward the curb, she assured him that his first conclusion about her was wrong. She had been trying to think and hurry at the same time, that was all. He was a fine specimen of the city’s choice, young, well set-up, weather-bronzed. He begged her pardon for his mistake. When he turned to leave her Dolores had a sudden sense of loss. “If you please----” She caught his arm and gazed up at him, her lips uncertain over what next to say. He showed surprise at her touch and look, but leaned to her. And as he leaned, red color waved across his tan. “Faith,” he said, “I’d hate to meet you goin’ home at night!”