The desire to confide in somebody eventually took Peter around to a stage door, though not the one at the end of the alley. From a Sunday graphic section he had noticed that Vonnie Bandana was playing in a musical show called "Harvest Moon." Vonnie Bandana wasn't really her name. The caption said Vonnie Ryan and Peter was sure it was the same girl. Evidently the Eight Bandana Sisters had gone the way of Brook Farm and Halcyon Hall and many another experiment in co-operation. Vonnie knew him all right. "You're the man that married Maria Algarez," she said. "Yes, but she's gone away." "I'm sorry." "That's all right. It was a long time ago. Almost a year now. She was a good dancer, wasn't she?" "Maria, oh, yes, she could dance. I wondered what became of her." "I don't know that. I haven't heard from her at all. I think she's abroad." "Have you seen our show?" "No, I just happened to notice your picture in the Bulletin last Sunday." "Did you? Wasn't that smart of you? I've got a part in this. Lines and everything. I sing a song. You know I don't sing it much. Just one verse and the chorus and then I dance it. The dance is all right." Peter and Vonnie had been slowly walking away from the theatre towards Broadway while they carried on this discussion and when they reached the avenue Vonnie stopped. "Are you going my way? I go up to a Hundred and Sixty-eighth street. Just a little this side of Albany." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was wondering if maybe you wouldn't come out and have supper with me. I just happened to be going by the theatre and I stopped around and thought I might run into you." "Listen," said Vonnie. "I'll have supper with you, but don't pull any more of that 'I just happened to be going by the theatre.' That's awful. You ought to say you've been planning to come and see me for a week and came all the way in from New Rochelle just special. You don't know anything about women, do you?" "I guess I don't," said Peter very soberly. "Oh, I am sorry," Vonnie laid her hand on his arm. "I didn't mean anything by that. Forget it. You're all right even if I don't remember your name. Did you ever tell it to me?" "My name's Peter Neale." "You're not the Peter Neale that writes in the Bulletin, are you?" "Yes, I do a sporting column. That looking 'em over stuff." "I've been looking for you. Do you know I almost wrote you a letter. Where do you get that stuff about Sandow Mertes being a more valuable man than George Browne?" "Browne can't hit lefthanders."