It was no more than a pace or two for Polly to reach the head of the table, to push a hand out against the raised one of Jimmy Haddon as he sat there flushed and laughing. The next instant she had stopped, and with the audacity of her very nature, so used to being allowed its own freakish will, she passed an arm about the head of David Joslin, a hand beneath his chin. She drew his white face back, looked down into his eyes, and sang—for a little while at least—“_You’re the only, only, only man for me!_” Something in the tense tableau they saw—some note, undefinable, caused every man of that virile assemblage to cease his laughter and applause. They stared. They saw the great hands of the man close tight about the white wrists of Polly Pendleton. She ceased to stroke the strong hair of David Joslin, and stood back, finishing her song out of touch and out of tune. Some thought her voice quavered just a little. But she sprang back tiptoe again upon the little dais, and finished boldly—yes, and added thereto the notes of her violin. None the less, there had been a scene. Someone had not played the game. And they must take care of Polly. They broke into applause. Someone started to pass a plate down the table. It was heaped up with money, in great part yellow in color. Coins fell on the floor—but there were no small silver ones. Some near by flung money in the general direction of the little platform where the two young women stood, smiling and bowing deeply—smiling at what they knew to be the success of their little offerings that evening. “Here you go, Polly!” as one man after another cast toward her something folded. And Polly, grave and a trifle white now, leaving her associate bowing on the stage, passed down the aisle, met the heaped plate on its way, stopped here and stopped there, laughing and talking, chattering like some innocent child, picking up money—money—more money than David Joslin had thought there was in all the world. He alone gave nothing, for he had naught to give—only the happiness and peace of a human soul. There was so much tribute that Polly made great show of thrusting part of it beneath her garter, till she could hold no more in that fashion. Some she thrust into her bosom, and then, turning, carried the rest of it to her partner, who happily was provided with a reticule. Everybody laughed—everybody was pleased. It had cost them very little—perhaps a few hundred dollars—to make these two girls feel that they had made a hit. The wine was excellent. Everything had been splendid in every way. The cost? Why, what Jimmy Haddon had done for them in bringing this geezer here to tell them about their property would bring them more than ten thousand times the cost of the banquet, or the cost of the whole investment.