He felt in his pocket. Not enough money, of course. He never had enough. He couldn't ever plan intelligently. Yet he was earning twelve dollars a week!... He had a dollar, and a little change. Perhaps it was enough. He could go to a cheap hotel. He had seen them advertised--fifty or seventy-five cents for the night. And then an early morning train for Sunbury. He would be worse off then than ever, of course. The people who had talked, would have fresh material. Running away from the party! They might say that he had got drunk. Though in a way he would welcome that. It was a sort of way out. The crowd was nearly gone. They would be closing the doors soon. Then he would have to go--somewhere. A big woman was making her way inward against the human current. But Henry, though he saw her and knew in a dreamy way that it was Madame Watt, still couldn't, for the moment, find place for her in his madly surging thoughts. She passed him; looked into the darkened theatre; came back; stood before him. Then came this brief conversation:-- 'You haven't seen him, Henry?' 'No, I haven't.' 'Hm! Awkward--he took the pledge--he swore it--I am counting on you to help me.' 'Of course. Anything!' 'Were you out with him between the acts?' 'Why--yes.' 'Did he drink anything then?' 'Yes. He took Scotch.' 'Oh, he did?' 'Yes'm.' 'It's all off, then. See here, Henry, will you look? The same place? Be very careful. People mustn't know. And I must count on you. There's nobody else. We'll manage it, somehow. We've got to keep him quiet and get him out home. I'll be at the restaurant. You can send word in to me--have a waiter say I'm wanted at the telephone. Do that. And...' It is to be doubted if Henry heard more than half of this speech. She was still speaking when he shot out to the street, dodged back of the waiting groups by the kerb and disappeared among the night traffic of the street in the direction of a certain bar. 6 The Senator's cheeks and forehead and nose were shining redly above the little white beard, which, for itself, looked more than ever askew. The straw hat was far back on his head. He waved a limp hand toward the enormous, brightly lighted painting that hung over the bar. Henry, a painfully set look on his face, sat opposite, across the alcove, leaned heavily on the table, and watched him. The passion had gone out of him. He was wishing, in a state near despair, that he had listened more attentively to what Madame Watt had said. Something about getting word to her--at the restaurant. But how could he? If it had seemed disastrously difficult before, full of his own trouble, to face that merry party, it was now, with this really tragic problem on his hands, flatly impossible. And there wasn't a soul in the world to help him. He must work it out alone. Even if he might get word to Madame, what could she do? She couldn't leave her party. And she couldn't bring this pitiable object in among those young people.