"It ain't a hard part to act," replied the dummy-chucker. "And you _can_ act," said the other. "The way you fooled those women in front of the Concorde proved that you----" "Sh-sh!" exclaimed the dummy-chucker reproachfully. "Please don't remind me of what I was before I became a gentleman." His host laughed. "You're all right." He looked at his watch. "I'll have to leave now. I'll send the car back after you. Don't be afraid of trouble with the hotel people. I'll explain that I know you, and fix matters up all right. Just take the table at the right hand side as you enter----" "Oh, I've got it all right," said the dummy-chucker. "Better slip me something on account. I may have to pay something----" "You get nothing now," was the stern answer. "One hundred dollars when I get back here. And," he added, "if it should occur to you at the hotel that you might pawn these studs, or the flask, or the clothing for more than a hundred, let me remind you that my chauffeur will be watching one entrance, my valet another, and my chef another." The dummy-chucker returned his gaze scornfully. "Do I look," he asked, "like the sort of man who'd _steal_?" His host shook his head. "You certainly don't," he admitted. The dummy-chucker turned back to the mirror. He was still entranced with his own reflection, twenty minutes later, when the valet told him that the car was waiting. He looked like a millionaire. He stole another glance at himself after he had slipped easily into the fur-lined overcoat that the valet held for him, after he had set somewhat rakishly upon his head the soft black-felt hat that was the latest accompaniment to the dinner coat. Down-stairs, he spoke to Andrews, the chauffeur. "Drive across the Fifty-ninth Street bridge first." The chauffeur stared at him. "Who you given' orders to?" he demanded. The dummy-chucker stepped closer to the man. "You heard my order?" His hands, busily engaged in buttoning his gloves, did not clench. His voice was not raised. And Andrews must have outweighed him by thirty pounds. Yet the chauffeur stepped back and touched his hat. "Yes, sir," he muttered. The dummy-chucker smiled. "The lower classes," he said to himself, "know rank and position when they see it." His smile became a grin as he sank back in the limousine that was his host's evening conveyance. It became almost complacent as the car slid down Park Avenue. And when, at length, it had reached the center of the great bridge that spans the East River, he knocked upon the glass. The chauffeur obediently stopped the car. The dummy-chucker's grin was absolutely complacent now. Down below, there gleamed lights, the lights of ferries, of sound steamers, and--of Blackwell's Island. This morning, he had left there, a lying mendicant. To-night, he was a gentleman. He knocked again upon the glass. Then, observing the speaking-tube, he said through it languidly: "The Park Square, Andrews."