umanity that swirls in eddies along the Great White Way. The agent
stood looking after her. With a sagacious shake of his head, he
murmured to himself:

"I don't know but that she's the wise one, after all. What's the good
of being decent? The world respects the man who can wear fine duds.
Nobody asks how he got 'em. One's a fool to care. Every one for himself
and let the devil take the hindmost."

Having thus unburdened himself of this philosophical reflection, Jim
Weston proceeded on his way. Continuing north up Broadway as far as
Forty-third Street, he crossed Long Acre Square and stopping in front
of a dilapidated-looking brown-stone house, climbed wearily up the
steep stoop. The house was one of the few old-fashioned private
residences still left standing in the business section of the city.
Some forty or more years ago, when Long Acre was practically a suburb
of New York, this particular house was the home of a proud
Knickerbocker family. Its rooms and halls and staircases rang with the
laughter of richly-attired men and women--the society of New York in
ante-bellum days. But in the modern relentless march uptown of
commercialism, all that remained of its one-time glory had been swept
away. The house fell into decay and ruin, and while waiting for it to
be pulled down entirely, to make room for an up-to-date skyscraper, the
present owners had rented it just to pay the taxes. And a queer
collection of tenants they had secured. A quick-lunch-counter man
occupied the basement: a theatrical costumer had the front parlor, with
armor and wigs, and other bizarre exhibits in the window. Up one fight
of stairs was a private detective bureau, while on the next flight was
a theatrical agency, presided over by a Mr. Quiller--foxy Quiller, his
clients nicknamed him, where actors and actresses out of employment,
might or might not, hear of things to their advantage.

There was no elevator and the stairs were dark and fatiguing to climb.
By the time he had reached the top, Jim Weston was out of breath.
Halting a moment to get his wind, he then continued along a hall until
he came to an office, the door of which was opened. He entered.

In a large gloomy-looking room, scantily lighted by two windows, which
looked as if they had not been washed for months, a score of men and
women were sitting in solemn silence, on as many rickety chairs. That
they were professionals "out of engagement" was evident at a glance.
The women wore