With the clang of the closing gate, Grismer’s handsome face altered terribly, and he turned deathly white for a moment. Two policemen lounged by in the glare of the arc-light; one of them glanced down into the areaway and saw a pallid face behind the iron bars—turned sharply to look again. "Gee," he said to his mate, "d’yeh get that guy’s map?" "Coke," said the other carelessly. "Looks like a feller I seen in Sing Sing waitin’ for the priest—what’s his name, now——" The voices receded. But Grismer had heard. Perhaps his brain registered the scene sketched by the policeman—a bloodless face behind the death-cell grating—the distant steps of the procession already sounding in the corridor. He opened the gate and went out to the sidewalk where a young girl, unskillfully painted, stood looking about her preliminary to opening the night’s campaign. "Hello," she said tentatively. "Ah," he said pleasantly, "a goddess of the stars!" "Got anything on?" she asked, approaching with her mirthless smile. "Yes, a few casual garments." She looked him over with the uncanny wisdom of her caste, and, young as she was, she divined in this man only the opportunity to waste her time. "What’s the matter?" she asked, glancing at his shabby dressing gown. "Up against it?" "What I’m up against," he said, absently, "will look good to you, too, some day." "What’s that?" "Death, my dear." "Quit kiddin’!" she retorted, with an uneasy laugh. "You got your looks yet." She stepped nearer, looking at him curiously. "Nothing like that," she said. "You’re a looker. Buck up, old scout!" She was leaning against the railing where he stood resting his back. Presently he turned, leisurely, and surveyed her. "You _are_ young," he said. "You’ll be a tired girl before you’re up against what I am." "What have you done?" she enquired curiously. "Nothing." "Sure. That’s why we all go up the river." "I’m going across the river," he remarked, smiling. "Which?" "The Styx. You never heard of it, I suppose." "One of them dirty rivers in Jersey?" He nodded gravely. "What’s out there?" she enquired. "I don’t know, my dear." "Then what’s the idea?" She waited for an answer, but his golden eyes were dreamily remote. The girl lingered. Once or twice professional sense suggested departure, but when her tired eyes of a child rested on him something held her inert. When she again interrupted his revery he looked around at her as though he had never before seen her, and she repeated what she had said. "What?" he asked sharply. "I got a fiver that ain’t workin’," she said again. "You can use it in your business if it’s any good." "My dear child," he said pleasantly, "you’re very kind, but that’s not what the matter is." He turned, dropped his arm on the railing, facing her: "What’s your name?" "Gloria Cameron." "Come on," he said, good-humouredly, "what’s your other name?" "Anne." "Anne, what?" "O’Hara." "Will you wait a minute?" She nodded uncertainly.