"Lucky they don't know where you're goin'," he said. "But I'm safe. Safe as a clam!" He reassured David with his beery smile. The vague dread increased. "What do you mean?" "Innocent front! Oh, you're a wise one, I see. But you can trust me. I'm safe." David was silent for several paces. "Who is this man L. D.?" "This man?" He cackled. "This man! Oh, you'll do!" David looked away in disgust; the old satyr made him think of the garbage of dissipation. All during their fifteen-minute car ride his indefinite fear changed from one dreadful shape to another. After a short walk the old man led the way into a small apartment house, and up the stairs. He paused before a door. "Here's your 'man,'" he said, nudging David and giving his dry, throaty little laugh. "Thanks," said David. But the guide did not leave. "Ain't you got a dime that's makin' trouble for the rent o' your coin?" David handed him ten cents. "Safe as a clam," he whispered, and went down the stairs with a cackle about "the man." David hesitated awhile, with high-beating heart, then knocked at the door. It was opened by a coloured maid. "Who lives here?" he asked. "Miss Lillian Drew." David stepped inside. "Please tell her I'd like to see her. I'm from Mr. Morton." The maid directed him toward the parlour and went to summon her mistress. At the parlour door David was met with the heavy perfume of violets. The room was showily furnished with gilt, upholstery, vivid hangings, painted bric-a-brac--all with a stiff shop-newness that suggested recently acquired funds. An ash-tray on the gilded centre-table held several cigarette stubs. On the lid of the upright piano was the last song that had pleased Broadway, and on the piano's top stood a large photograph of a man with a shrewd, well-fed face, his derby hat pushed back, his hands in his trousers pockets, a jewelled saddle in his necktie. Across this picture of portly jauntiness was scrawled, "To lovely Lil, from Jack." David had no more than seated himself upon a surface of blue chrysanthemums and taken in these impressions, when the portieres parted and between them appeared a tall, slender woman in a trained house-gown of pink silk, with pearls in her ears and a handful of rings on her fingers. She looked thirty-five, and had a bold, striking beauty, though it was perhaps a trifle over-accentuated by the pots and pencils of her dressing-table. Possibly her nature had its kindly strain--doubtless she could smile alluringly; but just now her dark eyes gazed at David in hard, challenging suspicion. David rose. "Is this Miss Drew?" "You are from Phil Morton?" she asked. He shivered at the implied familiarity with Morton. "I am." She crossed to a chair and, as she seated herself, spread her train fan-wise to its full display. Her near presence seemed to uncork new bottles of violet perfume. "Why didn't he come himself?" she demanded, her quick, brilliant eyes directly upon David.