of the underworld, must preserve a fiction of polite manners.

Michael was not allowed to maintain his attitude of disinterested
commentary, for the girl in the daisied hat presently addressed him, and
he did not wish to hurt her feelings by not replying.

"You're very silent, kiddie," she said. "I'll give you a penny for
them."

"I really wasn't thinking about anything in particular," said Michael.
"Will you have a drink?"

"Don't mind if I do. Alphonse!" she shouted, tugging at the arm of the
overloaded waiter who was accomplishing his transit. "Bring me a hot
whisky-and-lemon. There's a love."

Alphonse made the slightest sign of having heard the request and passed
on. Michael held his breath while the girl was giving her order. He was
expecting every moment that the waiter would break over the alcove in a
fountain of glass.

"I've taken quite a fancy to whisky-and-lemon hot," she informed
Michael. "You know. Anyone does, don't they? Get a sudden fit and keep
on keeping on with one drink, I mean. This'll be my sixth to-night. But
I'm a long way off being drunk, kiddie. Do you like my new hat? I reckon
it'll bring me luck."

"I expect it will," Michael said.

"You are serious, aren't you? When I first saw you I thought you was the
spitting image of a fellow I know--Bert Saunders, who writes about the
boxing matches for Crime Illustrated. He's more of a bright-eyes than
you are, though."

The whisky-and-lemon arrived, and she drank Michael's health.

"Funny-tasting stuff when you come to think of it," she said
meditatingly. "What's your name, kiddie?"

He told her.

"Michael," she repeated. "You're a Jew, then?"

He shook his head.

"Well, kid, I suppose you know best, but Michael is a Jewish name, isn't
it? Michael? Of course it is. I don't mind Jew fellows myself. One or
two of them have been very good to me. My name's Daisy Palmer."

The conversation languished slightly, because Michael since his
encounter with Poppy at Neptune Crescent was determined to be very
cautious.

"You look rather French," was his most audacious sally toward the
personal.

"Funny you should have said that, because my mother was a stewardess on
the Calais boat. She was Belgian herself."

Again the conversation dropped.

"I'm waiting for a friend," Daisy volunteered. "She's been having a row
with her fellow, and she promised to come on down to the Orange and tell
me about it. Dolly Wearne is her name. She ought to ha