The entrance of an acquaintance detained her. There were words that had to be said and drinks that had to be bought. Half an hour passed, and then, as she started with Carrie for the door, Mary saw Wesley Dyker standing outside. He was wrapped in a heavy overcoat with its military collar turned up about his chin and his black derby pulled far over his eyes; but Mary feared him too much to fail of recognition. "There he is!" she whispered, catching her companion's arm. "The Dago telephoned him. I was afraid of that." Escape was hopeless. She sent Carrie back to the dancers, and, going out, met Dyker, her head erect. "I heard you was lookin' for me," she said. Wesley raised his hat. "Yes," he said dryly; "walk a block or two with me." They went for some time in silence, Mary too much upon the defensive to risk beginning a conversation, and Dyker trying in vain to command the anger that had been growing with every day since he had learned how she had betrayed him to Marian. At the first dark street into which he turned her, his resentment burst its guard. "What in hell do you mean by telling everybody all you know about me?" he demanded. Mary shrank away. "No, you don't!" he said, and seized her hand. "Didn't I do you the best turn that was ever done you?" "Yes," the woman quavered. "An' I wouldn't pay you back the way you say I done. I never talked about you to nobody." "Don't lie. You know you did." Mary remembered, but she shook her head determinedly. "I've never once spoke your name," she said. "I tell you to stop lying!" rejoined Dyker. "You told it once at the Settlement on Rivington Street. I know it. I learned it there myself." "What did I tell?" asked Mary. Her tone was defiant, but her endeavor was to draw his fire. They walked forward. "You said I hung out at Rose's," he protested. "You said I was her lover and yours." "I never said I had nothing to do with you, Mr. Dyker. I don't care who told you I did; I never said no such thing." "You said I went to Rose's. I know you did." She confessed to that, for she was truly sorry for it. "But I didn't mean to, Mr. Dyker," she added; "honest, I didn't. It just slipped out. I didn't know Miss Marian knowed you. Why, she told me she didn't know you, an' how'd I ever think she'd lie?" That was a question which, ignorant of Miss Lennox's precise method of evasion, Wesley did not, even to himself, attempt to answer. "It didn't matter whether she knew me or not," he said; "you had no right to tell it." "I know that. It just slipped out. But it won't never happen again. I wasn't so wise as I am now." "I hope not," he said, a trifle mollified by the sincerity in her tone. "But you've done me a big amount of harm there, Violet, and you have got to undo it."