“You were expecting me?” inquired Larry with his disarming and wholly engaging smile.

Neither Miss Grierson’s mind nor body was geared for rapid action.  She was taken aback, and yet not offended.  So being at a loss, she resorted to the chief item in her stock in trade, her ever dependable dignity.

“I cannot say that I was.  In fact, sir, I do not know who you are.”

“Miss Cameron knows—­and she is expecting me,” Larry returned pleasantly.  His quick eyes had noted that this was a sitting-room:  an ornate, patterned affair which the great hotels seem to order in hundred lots.  “Where is Miss Cameron?”

“In the next room,” nodding at the connecting door.  “She is engaged.  Telephoning.  A long-distance call.  I’m quite sure she is not expecting you,” Miss Grierson went on to explain ponderously and elaborately, but with politeness, for this young man was handsome and pleasant and well-bred and might prove to be some one of real importance.  “We were to have had a theater party with supper afterwards; but owing to Miss Cameron’s indisposition we did not go to the theater.  But she insisted on keeping the engagement for the supper, but changing it to here.  Besides herself and myself, there are to be only her uncle, her cousin, and just one guest.  That is why I am so certain, sir, she is not expecting you.”

“But you see,” smiled Larry, “I am that one guest.”

Miss Grierson shook her carefully coiffured transformation.  “I’ve met the guest who is coming, and I certainly have not met you.”

“Then she must have asked two of us.  Anyhow, I’ll just speak to her, and if I’m mistaken and de trop, I’ll withdraw.”  And ere Miss Grierson could even stir up an intention to intervene further, this well-mannered young man had smiled his disarming smile and bowed to her and had passed through the door, closing it behind him.

He halted, the knob in his hand.  Maggie was standing sidewise to him, holding a telephone in her hand, its receiver at her ear.  She must have supposed that it was Miss Grierson who had so quietly entered, for she did not look around.

“Yes, I’m still waiting,” she was saying impatiently.  “Can’t you ever get that connection?”

Larry had seen Maggie only in the plain dark suit which she had worn to her daily business of selling cigarettes at the Ritzmore; and once, on the night of his return from Sing Sing, in that stage gypsy costume, which though effective was cheap and impromptu and did not at all lift her out of the environment of the Duchess’s ancient and grimy house.  But Larry was so startled by this changed Maggie that for the moment he could not have moved from the door even had he so desired.  She was accoutered in the smartest of filmy evening gowns, with the short skirt which was then the mode, with high-heeled silver slippers, her rounded arms and shoulders and bosom bare, her abundant black hair piled high in careful carelessness.  The gown was cerise in color, and from her forearm hung a great fan of green plumes.  In all the hotels and theaters of New York one could hardly have come upon a figure that night more striking in its finished and fresh young womanhood.  Larry trembled all over; his heart tried to throb madly up out of his throat.