He came out of his musings with a realization that Storch was regarding him with that puzzled air which his moods were beginning to evoke.  And almost at the same time he was conscious that their feet were planted upon that selfsame corner past which Ginger walked at midnight.  He put a hand on Storch’s shoulder.

“Let us wait here a few moments,” he said.  “I am feeling a little tired.”

A newsboy bellowing the latest edition of the paper broke an unusual and almost profound stillness.

“There doesn’t seem to be many people about to-night,” Fred observed, casually.

Storch sneered.  “To-day is Good Friday, I believe...  Everyone has grown suddenly pious.”

Fred turned his attention to the windows of a tawdry candy shop, filled with unhealthy-looking chocolates and chromatic sweets.  He was wondering whether Ginger would pass again to-night.  His musings were answered by the suggestive pressure of Storch’s hand on his.

“There’s a skirt on the Rialto, anyway,” Storch was saying, with disdain.

Fred kept his gaze fixed upon the candy-shop window.  He was afraid to look up.  Could it be that Ginger was passing before him, perhaps for the last time?  He caught the vague reflection of a feminine form in the plate-glass window.  A surge of relief swept him—­at least she was alone!

“She’s looking back!” Storch volunteered.

Fred turned.  The woman had gained the doorway of the place where she lodged and she was standing with an air of inconsequence as if she had nothing of any purpose on her mind except an appreciation of the night’s dark beauty.  He looked at her steadily ...  It was Ginger!

She continued to stand, immobile, wrapped in the sinister patience of her calling.  Fred could not take his eyes from her.

“She’s waiting for you,” Storch said.

Fred smiled wanly.

“Do you want to go? ...  If you do I’ll wait—­here!”

Fred tried to conceal his conflicting emotions.  He did not want to betray his surprise at Storch’s sudden and irrational indiscretion.

“Well, if you don’t mind,” he began to flounder, “I’ll—­”

Storch gave him a contemptuous shove.  “Go on ... go on!” he cried, almost impatiently, and the next moment Fred Starratt found himself at Ginger’s side...  For an instant she stood transfixed as she lifted her eyes to his.

“Don’t scream!” he commanded between his locked lips.  “I don’t want that man to know that—­”

She released her breath sharply.  “Shall we go in?” she whispered.

He nodded.  Storch was pretending to be otherwise absorbed, but Fred knew that he had been intent on their pantomime.

Her room was bare, pitifully bare, swept clean of all the tawdry fripperies that one might expect from such an environment and circumstance.  She motioned him wearily to an uncompromising chair, standing herself with an air of profound resignation as she leaned against the cheaply varnished bureau.