lly don't know?"

"I don't know many girls in this town."

"Hm-m-m," said Hamilton. "Thought everybody knew her. Felicity Brown.
Aero Octet." And he repeated his invitation.

"She'll want to thank you for preventing damage to life or limb." He
couldn't have said exactly what made him voice the rest, unless it was
the way the boy's eyes had followed her.

"And believe me, damage to life or limb, it would have been an equal
catastrophe to Felicity. Come on along."

Perry hung back.

"Don't you know," he hesitated, "that you can lose your reputation just
from being seen talking to me?"

Hamilton laughed again. He saw, however, that Perry's mind was not
upon what he was saying. And who shall say when fancy first was bred?
Not you--or I--or even Hamilton. But the latter might have hazarded a
shrewd guess. And a man, it would seem, has a little excuse for
falling in love with a girl with Felicity's looks, whose life he just
has saved.

"Come along," urged Hamilton. "I want to hear about that mess. I've
been six months in Mexico." But he eyed the boy with deeper curiosity
as they crossed Broadway.

"Who was the man?"

Perry spoke just once to ask that question, before they left the
white-lit street for the elevator.

"Dunham."

Yet somehow Hamilton was sure that the other had known all along. And
the quizzical eyes became malicious. If the boy was falling in love
with Felicity he anticipated with glee unholy complications. Dunham's
alacrity at the scene of the accident no man could underestimate.
Pig-iron Dunham didn't, indiscriminately, beg young ladies to let the
limousine bear them across Broadway in safety, or anywhere else, for
that matter.

And yet, some hours later, when he had left Perry Blair waiting for
Felicity at the mouth of the alley which ran back to the Roof's stage
door, Hamilton found himself with little relish for the complications
which he had so wisely foreseen. Perry's story of the trouble with
Devereau and Dunham he had had in full, and believed. He had wanted to
do something and realized that there was not much which he could do.

And now this. It was funny--but it wasn't so damned funny either.
Why, the kid was just--well, just a kid. And Felicity had been sweet
to him. Very sweet and simple, in spite of his own none too well
curbed sarcasm. Under Dunham's eye--because she knew that Dunham's eye
was always upon her--she had sat long at their table, a slim thing i