As he stood there, the girl raised her head. She did not look toward the dummy-chucker, could not see him. But he could see the proud line of her throat, the glory of her golden hair. And opposite her he could see the features of his host, could note how illy that shrewd nose and slit of a mouth consorted with the gentle face of the girl. And then, as the _mâitre d'hôtel_ beckoned, he remembered that he had left the flask, the monogrammed flask, in his overcoat pocket. "Just a moment," he said. He turned and walked back toward the corner where was his coat. In the distance, he saw some one, approaching him, noted the free stride, the carriage of the head, the set of the shoulders. And then, suddenly, he saw that the "some one" was himself. The mirror was guilty of the illusion. Once again he stood before it, admiring himself. He summoned the face of the girl who was sitting in the dining-room before his mental vision. And then he turned abruptly to the check-girl. "I've changed my mind," he said. "My coat, please." * * * * * He was lounging before the open fire when three-quarters of an hour later his host was admitted to the luxurious apartment. Savagely the young man pulled off his coat and approached the dummy-chucker. "I hardly expected to find you here," he said. The dummy-chucker shrugged. "You said the doors were watched. I couldn't make an easy getaway. So I rode back here in your car. And when I got here, your man made me wait, so--here we are," he finished easily. "'Here we are!' Yes! But when you were there--I saw you at the entrance to the dining-room--for God's sake, why didn't you do what you'd agreed to do?" The dummy-chucker turned languidly in his chair. He eyed his host curiously. "Listen, feller," he said: "I told you that I drew the line at murder, didn't I?" "'Murder?' What do you mean? What murder was involved?" The dummy-chucker idly blew a smoke ring. "Murder of faith in a woman's heart," he said slowly. "Look at me! Do I look the sort who'd play your dirty game?" The young man stood over him. "Bannon," he called. The valet entered the room. "Take the clothes off this--this bum!" snapped the host. "Give him his rags." He clenched his fists, but the dummy-chucker merely shrugged. The young man drew back while his guest followed the valet into another room. Ten minutes later, the host seized the dummy-chucker by the tattered sleeve of his grimy jacket. He drew him before the mirror. "Take a look at yourself, you--bum!" he snapped. "Do you look, now, like the sort of man who'd refuse to earn an easy hundred?" The dummy-chucker stared at himself. Gone was the debonair gentleman of a quarter of an hour ago. Instead, there leered back at him a pasty-faced, underfed vagrant, dressed in the tatters of unambitious, satisfied poverty. "Bannon," called the host, "throw him out!"