She had placed the chart of Jennie's case uppermost on the table, was about to have the case summoned when the door flew open and Winnie Steppler entered. Doors always flew open before Winnie's entrance. White-haired, pink-cheeked as a girl, looming vast and imposing in her blue cloak and gray furs, she looked more the grande dame on an errand of mercy than a newspaper reporter on the job. She rarely got a story in Judge Barton's court because Judge Barton's girls' names were carefully kept out of the glare of publicity. The human quality in the place drew her; and her friendship and admiration for Emma Barton; and the off-chance. There might be a story for her. She ranged the city, did Winnie Steppler, for her stuff. Her friends were firemen and policemen, newsboys and elevator starters; movie ticket-sellers, news-stand girls, hotel clerks, lunch-room waitresses, manicures, taxi-drivers, street-sweepers, doormen, waiters, Greek boot-blacks--all that vast stratum of submerged servers over whom the flood of humanity sweeps in a careless torrent leaving no one knows what sediment of rich knowledge. At sight of Lottie, Winnie Steppler's Irish blue eyes blazed. She affected a brogue, inimitable. "Och, but you're the grand sight and me a-sickening for ye these weeks and not a glimpse. You'll have lunch with me--you and Her Honour there." "I can't," said Lottie. "And why not, then!" It really was beginning to sound a little foolish. Lottie hesitated. She fidgeted with her fingers, looked up smiling uncertainly. "I've"--with a rush--"I've got to be home by twelve to drive mother to market and to the West Side." "Telephone her. Say you won't be home till two. It's no life-and-death matter, is it--the market and the West Side?" Lottie tried to picture that driving force at home waiting complacently until she should return at two. "Oh, I can't! I can't!" Winnie Steppler, the world-wise, stared at her a moment curiously. There had been a note resembling hysteria in Lottie's voice. "Why, look here, girl----" "Order in the court!" said Judge Barton, with mock dignity. But she meant it. It was ten o'clock. Two probation officers came in. A bailiff opened the door and stuck his head in. Judge Barton nodded to him. He closed the door. You heard his voice in the outer room. "Jeannette Kromek! Mrs. Kromek! Otto Kromek!"