o him, I'm sure. You are
quite certain, though, that it isn't someone just behind me?"

I whispers that there's no one behind her but a fat woman munchin'
chocolates and rubberin' back to see if Hubby ain't through gettin' his
drink.

"There! He's takin' his glasses down," says I. "Know the party, do you?"

"Not at this distance," says Zenobia. "No, I shall insist that he is an
unknown admirer."

By that time, though, I'd got a better view myself. And--say, hadn't I
seen them ruddy cheeks and that gray hair and them droopy eyes before?
Why, sure! It's what's-his-name, the old guy who blew into the
Corrugated awhile ago, my absentee boss--Ballard!

Maybe I'd have told Zenobia all about him if there'd been time; but
there wa'n't. Another flash of the lights, and we was watchin' the last
act, where this gutter-bred Pygmalion sprouts a soul. And when it's all
over of course we're swept out with the ebb tide, make a scramble for
our taxi, and are off for home. Then as we gets to the door I has the
sudden hunch about eats.

"There's a joint around on Sixth-ave.," says I, lettin' Aunt Zenobia in,
"where they sell hot dog sandwiches with sauerkraut trimmin's. I believe
I could just do with one about now."

"What an atrocious suggestion at this hour of the night!" says she.
"Torchy, don't you dare bring one of those abominations into the
house--unless you have enough to divide with me. About four, I should
say."

"With mustard?" says I.

"Heaps!" says she.

Three minutes later I'm hurryin' back with both hands full, when I
notices another taxi standin' out front. Then who should step out but
this Ballard party, in a silk hat and a swell fur-lined overcoat.

"Young man," says he, "haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "I'm your private sec."

"Wha-a-at?" says he. "My--oh, yes! I remember. I saw you at the
Corrugated."

"And then again at the show to-night," says I.

"To be sure," says he. "With a lady, eh?"

I nods.

"Lives here, doesn't she?" asks Ballard.

"Right again," says I. "Goin' to call?"

"Why," says he, "the fact is, young man, I--er--see here, it's Zenobia
Hadley, isn't it?"

"Preble," says I. "Mrs. Zenobia Preble."

"Hang the Preble part!" says he. "He's dead years ago. What I want to
know is, who else lives here?"

"Only her and Sister Martha and me," says I.

"Martha, eh?" says he. "Still alive, is she? Well, well! And Zenobia
now, is she--er--a good deal like her