"I can't quite tell, myself." "It wasn't my fault," she protested with a flash of passion. "I lost my job today, and because I said I wanted to go on the stage, my father put me out of the house." "Yes," he agreed amiably; "they always do--don't they? I fancied it was something like that. But there isn't really any reason why you shouldn't go home tomorrow and patch it up--or is there?" She gulped convulsively: "You don't understand--" "Probably I don't," he conceded. "Still, things may look very much otherwise in the morning. They generally do, I notice. One goes to bed with reluctance and wakes up with a headache. All that sort of thing.... But if you'll listen to me a moment--why, then if you want to go, I shan't detain you.... My name is John Matthias. My trade is writing things--plays, mostly: I know it sounds foolish, but then I hate exercise. I live--sleep, that is--ah--elsewhere--down the street. This is merely my work-room. So your stopping here won't inconvenience me in the least...." He snatched up a mass of papers from the table, folded them hastily and thrust them into a coat pocket. "That manuscript I was after. Good night. I do hope you'll be comfortable." Before the amazed girl could collect herself, he had his hat and handbag and was already in the hallway. She ran after him. "But, Mr. Matthias--" He glanced hastily over his shoulder while fumbling with the night-latch. "I can't let you--" "Oh, but you must--really, you know." He had the door open. "But why do you--how can you trust me with all your things?" "Tut!" he said reprovingly from the vestibule--"nothing there but play 'scripts, and they're not worth anything. You can't get anybody to produce 'em. I know, because I've tried." He closed the inner door and banged the outer behind him. Joan, on the point of pursuing to the street, paused in the vestibule, and for a moment stood doubting. Then, with a bewildered look, she returned slowly to the back room, shut herself in, and shot the bolt.... * * * * * On the platform of the stoop, Mr. Matthias delayed long enough to turn up his coat-collar for the better protection of his linen, and surveyed with a wry grin the slashing rush of rain through which he now must needs paddle unprotected. "Queer thing for a fellow to do," he mused dispassionately.... "Daresay I am a bit of an ass.... I might at least have borrowed my own umbrella.... But that would hardly have been consistent with the egregious insanity of the performance.... "I wonder why I do these awful things?... If I only knew, perhaps I could reform...." Running down the steps, he set out at a rapid pace for the Hotel Astor; which in due time received and harboured him for the night. V