little warrior,
inside the walls of a fortified place, hobnobbing with the formidable army
of occupation and staring holes through the uniforms of the General Staff!
She sat in the Tresslyn camp, and there were no other Tresslyns there. She
sat with the Wintermills, and--yes, he had to admit it,--she had winked at
him slyly when she caught his eye early in the evening. It was a very
small wink to be sure and was not repeated.

The night was cold. His chauffeur was not to be found by the door-men who
ran up and down the line from Fifth to Sixth Avenue for ten minutes before
Simmy remembered that he had told the man not to come for him until three
in the morning, an hour at which one might reasonably expect a dance to
show signs of abating.

He was on the point of ordering a taxi-cab when his attention was drawn to
a figure that lurked well back in the shadows of the Berkeley Theatre down
the street--a tall figure in a long ulster. Despite the darkness, Simmy's
intense stare convinced him that it was George Tresslyn who stood over
there and gazed from beneath lowered brows at the bright doorway. He
experienced a chill that was not due to the raw west wind. There was
something sinister about that big, motionless figure, something portentous
of disaster. He knew that George had been going down the hill with
startling rapidity. On more than one occasion he had tried to stay this
downward rush, but without avail. Young Tresslyn was drinking, but he was
not carousing. He drank as unhappy men drink, not as the happy ones do. He
drank alone.

For a few minutes Simmy watched this dark sentinel, and reflected. What
was he doing over there? What was he up to? Was he waiting for Lutie to
come forth from the fortified place? Was there murder and self-murder in
the heart of this unhappy boy? Simmy was a little man but he was no
coward. He did not hesitate long. He would have to act, and act promptly.
He did not dare go away while that menacing figure remained on guard. The
police, no doubt, would drive him away in time, but he would come back
again. So Simmy Dodge squared his shoulders and marched across the street,
to face what might turn out to be a ruthless lunatic--the kind one reads
about, who kill their best friends, "and all that sort of thing."

It was quite apparent that the watcher had been observing him. As Simmy
came briskly across the street, Tresslyn moved out of his position near
the awning and started westward, his