ess he's a private detective," she
appraised, shrewdly. "He isn't quite heavy enough for a real bull."

He struck a match. "He's been following me all day," he admitted.

"Somebody's keeping tab, eh?... Is friend wife on the trail?"

He laughed tonelessly and cast the match aside. The sharp little face
opposite was quickening with interest.

"No ... I let a bad check get out... _You_ know--no funds."

"Whew!" escaped her. "That isn't pretty!"

"You're damned right it isn't!" he echoed, emphatically.

She clutched at his wrist. "Say, the whole three are coming this
way... I guess they've got a warrant... Don't fight back, whatever you
do!"

Her words sobered him. She was right--three men were coming toward his
table. He rose with a flourish of dignity.

"Looking for me?" he asked.

"If your name is Starratt, we are," one of the men said, moving up
closely.

"What's the idea?"

The spokesman of the group flashed his star. "You're wanted on a
bad-check charge."

Fred reached for his hat. "All right... Let's get out quietly."

His brain was perfectly clear, but he staggered a trifle as he
followed the men along the edge of the dancing space to the stairway.
The music crashed furiously. Fred's associates were giving all their
attention to treading the uncertain steps of their tawdry bacchanal,
so they missed his exit.

Halfway up the stair leading to the sidewalk Fred was halted by a
touch upon his arm. He had forgotten Ginger, but there she stood with
that childish, almost wistful, look on her face.

"Say," she demanded, "can I do anything? I've got a pull if I want to
use it."

The other three men turned about and waited. The snaky one laughed.
Fred looked at her curiously.

"You might phone my wife," he returned. "But don't say anything to the
boys!"

"Where does she live?... I'll go now and see her. That is--if--"

For a moment Fred Starratt hesitated. Would it be quite the thing to
let a woman like this... But as quickly a sense of his ingratitude
swept him. Whether it was the thing or not, it was impossible to wound
the one person who stood so ready to serve him. A great compassion
seemed suddenly to flood him--for a moment he forgot his own plight.

"I don't remember the number of the house ... she's with friends.
You'll find the name in the telephone book... Hilmer--Fourteenth
Avenue. Ask for Mrs. Starratt."

"Axel Hilmer ... the man who--"

"He's a shipbuilder. Do you know him?"

She