Fuselli was staring at a door on one side of the bar. Men kept opening it and looking in and closing it again with a peculiar expression on their faces. Now and then someone would open it with a smile and go into the next room, shuffling his feet and closing the door carefully behind him. “Say, I wonder what they've got there,” said the top sergeant, who had been staring at the door. “Mush be looked into, mush be looked into,” he added, laughing drunkenly. “I dunno,” said Fuselli. The champagne was humming in his head like a fly against a window pane. He felt very bold and important. The top sergeant got to his feet unsteadily. “Corporal, take charge of the colors,” he said, and walked to the door. He opened it a little, peeked in; winked elaborately to his friends and skipped into the other room, closing the door carefully behind him. The corporal went over next. He said, “Well, I'll be damned,” and walked straight in, leaving the door ajar. In a moment it was closed from the inside. “Come on, Bill, let's see what the hell they got in there,” said Fuselli. “All right, old kid,” said Bill Grey. They went together over to the door. Fuselli opened it and looked in. He let out a breath through his teeth with a faint whistling sound. “Gee, come in, Bill,” he said, giggling. The room was small, nearly filled up by a dining table with a red cloth. On the mantel above the empty fireplace were candlesticks with dangling crystals that glittered red and yellow and purple in the lamplight, in front of a cracked mirror that seemed a window into another dingier room. The paper was peeling off the damp walls, giving a mortuary smell of mildewed plaster that not even the reek of beer and tobacco had done away with. “Look at her, Bill, ain't she got style?” whispered Fuselli. Bill Grey grunted. “Say, d'ye think the Jane that feller was tellin' us he raised hell with in Paris was like that?” At the end of the table, leaning on her elbows, was a woman with black frizzy hair cut short, that stuck out from her head in all directions. Her eyes were dark and her lips red with a faint swollen look. She looked with a certain defiance at the men who stood about the walls and sat at the table. The men stared at her silently. A big man with red hair and a heavy jaw who sat next her kept edging up nearer. Someone knocked against the table making the bottles and liqueur glasses clustered in the center jingle. “She ain't clean; she's got bobbed hair,” said the man next Fuselli. The woman said something in French. Only one man understood it. His laugh rang hollowly in the silent room and stopped suddenly. The woman looked attentively at the faces round her for a moment, shrugged her shoulders, and began straightening the ribbon on the hat she held on her lap. “How the hell did she get here? I thought the M. P.'s ran them out of town the minute they got here,” said one man. The woman continued plucking at her hat.