"Oh no. She used that on Buddy and he believes it implicitly--so implicitly that she warned me to keep off the track. She showed her teeth, in a nice way. I've seen her somewhere; in some place where I should not have been. But where? It must have been in this country, too--not abroad--or I'd remember her." "Maybe I haven't been as wild as you, Governor. This is a big country and I've missed a lot of disreputable joints." The former speaker smiled. "You have trained yourself to remember faces, Mallow. Your researches--scientific researches, my dear Professor--have led you into quarters which I have never explored. I must identify this venturesome little gold digger without delay, for Buddy yearns to make her all his; matrimony is becoming the one object of his life." "Why not let the poor carp have her? It's tough enough for a dame to get by since prohibition. I don't see how they make it, with everybody sober. Chances are she'd get the worst of the swap, at that." "Not unlikely, but that is neither here nor there. Understand me, I'm no seraph; I pose as no model of rectitude, and, unfortunately for my peace of mind, Miss Montague is a really likable young person. But Buddy has a mother and a sister, and they hold me responsible for him. We three are dining downstairs in an hour; perhaps you could look in on us?" "Sure. I'll give her the once over," Mallow agreed. "If she's anybody in our set, I'll know her." The dinner had scarcely started when Gray heard his name paged and left the table. In the lobby Mallow was waiting with a grin upon his face. "Is that her?" he inquired. "That is the girl." "_Girl?_ 'Arline Montague,' eh? Her name is Margie Fulton and she had her hair up when they built the Union Pacific." "Nonsense! You're mistaken. She can't be more than twenty-five--thirty at most." "A woman can be as young as she wants to be if she'll pay the price. Margie had her face tucked up two years ago. Cost her five thousand bucks." "I--can't believe it." "You see it every day. Look at the accordion-pleated beauts in the movies. Why, some of those dolls nursed in the Civil War! Those face surgeons have ironed the wrinkles out of many a withered peach, and you're dining with Margie Fulton, the Suicide Blonde. I know her kid." "Her _what?_" Mallow's hearer gasped. "Sure. She was married to Bennie Fulton, the jockey, and they had a boy. Bennie was ruled off in New Orleans and started a gambling house." "New Orleans! Wait--I'm beginning to remember." Into Gray's mind came an indistinct memory; the blurred picture of a race track with its shouting thousands, a crowded betting ring; then, more clearly, a garish, over-furnished room in a Southern mansion; clouds of tobacco smoke rising in the cones of bright light above roulette and poker tables; negro servants in white, with trays; mint juleps in tall, frosted glasses; a pretty girl with straw-colored hair--"You're right!" he agreed, finally. "She was a 'come-on.'"