manded rest from that incessant
review of the events of the evening.

She put on a warm wrap and seated herself at the dressing-table,
studying her face critically. She saw that she was somewhat pale and
that she had an indefinable air of dishevelment. Also she detected
shadows beneath her eyes, the pupils of which were curiously contracted.
Automatically, as a result of habit, she unlocked her jewel-case and
took out a tiny phial containing minute cachets. She shook several out
on to the palm of her hand, and then paused, staring at her reflection
in the mirror.

For fully half a minute she hesitated, then:

"I shall never close my eyes all night if I don't!" she whispered, as if
in reply to a spoken protest, "and I should be a wreck in the morning."

Thus, in the very apogee of her resolve to reform, did she drive one
more rivet into the manacles which held her captive to Kazmah and
Company.

Upon a little spirit-stove stood a covered vessel containing milk, which
was placed there nightly by Rita's maid. She lighted the burner and
warmed the milk. Then, swallowing three of the cachets from the phial,
she drank the milk. Each cachet contained three decigrams of malourea,
the insidious drug notorious under its trade name of Veronal.

She slept deeply, and was not awakened until ten o'clock. Her breakfast
consisted of a cup of strong coffee; but when Monte Irvin arrived at
eleven Rita exhibited no sign of nerve exhaustion. She looked bright and
charming, and Irvin's heart leapt hotly in his breast at sight of her.

Following some desultory and unnatural conversation:

"May I speak quite frankly to you?" he said, drawing his chair nearer to
the settee upon which Rita was seated.

She glanced at him swiftly. "Of course," she replied. "Is it--about my
late hours?"

He shook his head, smiling rather sadly.

"That is only one phase of your rather feverish life, little girl," he
said. "I don't mean that I want to lecture you or reproach you. I only
want to ask you if you are satisfied?"

"Satisfied?" echoed Rita, twirling a tassel that hung from a cushion
beside her.

"Yes. You have achieved success in your profession." He strove in
vain to banish bitterness from his voice. "You are a 'star,' and your
photograph is to be seen frequently in the smartest illustrated papers.
You are clever and beautiful and have hosts of admirers. But--are you
satisfied?"

She stared absently at the silk tassel, twirling it abou