“For Miss Norne’s performance there appears to be no plausible, practical or scientific explanation. “During her performance the curtain will remain lowered for fifteen minutes and will then rise on the last act of ‘You Betcha Life.’” The noisy show continued while Cleves, paying it scant attention, brooded over the programme. And ever his keen, grey eyes reverted to her name, Tressa Norne. Then, for a little while, he settled back and let his absent gaze wander over the galloping battalions of painted girls and the slapstick principals whose perpetual motion evoked screams of approbation from the audience amid the din of the great god Jazz. He had an aisle seat; he disturbed nobody when he went out and around to the stage door. The aged man on duty took his card, called a boy and sent it off. The boy returned with the card, saying that Miss Norne had already dressed and departed. Cleves tipped him and then tipped the doorman heavily. “Where does she live?” he asked. “Say,” said the old man, “I dunno, and that’s straight. But them ladies mostly goes up to the roof for a look in at the ‘Moonlight Masque’ and a dance afterward. Was you ever up there?” “Yes.” “Seen the new show?” “No.” “Well, g’wan up while you can get a table. And I bet the little girl will be somewheres around.” “The little girl” _was_ “somewheres around.” He secured a table, turned and looked about at the vast cabaret into which only a few people had yet filtered, and saw her at a distance in the carpeted corridor buying violets from one of the flower-girls. A waiter placed a reserve card on his table; he continued on around the outer edge of the auditorium. Miss Norne had already seated herself at a small table in the rear, and a waiter was serving her with iced orange juice and little French cakes. When the waiter returned Cleves went up and took off his hat. “May I talk with you for a moment, Miss Norne?” he said. The girl looked up, the wheat-straw still between her scarlet lips. Then, apparently recognising in him the young man in the audience who had spoken to her, she resumed her business of imbibing orange juice. The girl seemed even frailer and younger in her hat and street gown. A silver-fox stole hung from her shoulders; a gold bag lay on the table under the bunch of violets. She paid no attention whatever to him. Presently her wheat-straw buckled, and she selected a better one. He said: “There’s something rather serious I’d like to speak to you about if you’ll let me. I’m not the sort you evidently suppose. I’m not trying to annoy you.” At that she looked around and upward once more. Very, very young, but already spoiled, he thought, for the dark-blue eyes were coolly appraising him, and the droop of the mouth had become almost sullen. Besides, traces of paint still remained to incarnadine lip and cheek and there was a hint of hardness in the youthful plumpness of the features. “Are you a professional?” she asked without curiosity.