Would the denomination he had served allow his reputation to be charred by the brand he had tried so conscientiously to pluck from the burning? So Rev. Willard was quoted as having demanded in an exclusive interview. Would any fair-minded congregation take, against his, the word of an adventuress who so lately had been the example for a reform movement instituted by one of their most prominent parishioners, Mr. John Cabot? Was he to be blamed that he had assumed the sincerity of All Mankind’s ideals and had sought to make his charity wide as its word? To save himself for sake of future good that he might do, he would reveal, if forced, the overtures toward him of this unholy creature. As a sacred duty he would show his world which of the two was more sinned against than sinning. “A menace to men”--as such Dolores Trent was pointed out by the reprimanding finger of the press. Deacon Brill’s threat of Park Row had swerved from the sheep-clothed wolf to her. Whether or not Dr. Willard lost his pulpit, the harm to his secretary already was done. In the little room found for her by her quandam benefactor, a room in whose chintz-hung cosiness she had delighted, Dolores decided upon her immediate course. There were young daughters in the family of the poor parishioner. For their sakes, she would “fold her tents” before asked to do so and, silently as she might, steal away. Thanks to savings from her salary and that final payment in lieu of “notice,” she was more affluent than ever before in her life. She would go, then. But where? Opening her purse, she took out a business card and considered it as well as its kind-spoken donor. She would come? That had been Deacon Brill’s last question. In the absence of alternative---- With sudden decision, she tore the card into bits and flung them into the waste basket. Probably she didn’t understand men--that had been her thought. But she _did_ understand and _did_ believe in the up-floating purity of the voice of that soprano who had gone to dinner with the music committee’s over-fleshed chairman--the young lady who wouldn’t do. No alternative? The moment she cast aside what had seemed her only chance, she found another in her fingers. Almost had she forgotten the address given her by Patrolman Donovan O’Shay and tucked away in her purse. For weeks she had not thought of his “near-French” friend, Madame Marie Sheehan. Discounted by distance was her reason for postponing a visit to the employment office. Since her own judgment seemed always wrong, she would try the policeman’s. She would check herself in her “satchel” until the fates, “née Mary Shinn,” should see fit to provide. “Madame’s” French certainly was bad. There were advantages, however, in the long lapses between the selection of one word and her advance to the next. Dolores had ample time to translate the high-voiced utterances overheard from the inside room.