Besides these two there were innumerable other interesting glimpses into the life of this meeting-place for the half-and underworlds.  A motion in the audience attracted me, as if some favourite performer were about to appear, and I heard the “gun-moll” whisper, “Loraine Keith.”

There she was, a petite, dark-haired, snappy-eyed girl, chic, well groomed, and gowned so daringly that every woman in the audience envied and every man craned his neck to see her better.  Loraine wore a tight-fitting black dress, slashed to the knee.  In fact, everything was calculated to set her off at best advantage, and on the stage, at least, there was something recherche about her.  Yet, there was also something gross about her, too.

Accompanying her was a nervous-looking fellow whose washed-out face was particularly unattractive.  It seemed as if the bone in his nose was going, due to the shrinkage of the blood-vessels.  Once, just before the dance began, I saw him rub something on the back of his hand, raise it to his nose, and sniff.  Then he took a sip of a liqueur.

The dance began, wild from the first step, and as it developed, Kennedy leaned over and whispered, “The danse des Apaches.”

It was acrobatic.  The man expressed brutish passion and jealousy; the woman, affection and fear.  It seemed to tell a story—­the struggle of love, the love of the woman against the brutal instincts of the thug, her lover.  She was terrified as well as fascinated by him in his mad temper and tremendous superhuman strength.  I wondered if the dance portrayed the fact.

The music was a popular air with many rapid changes, but through all there was a constant rhythm which accorded well with the abandon of the swaying dance.  Indeed, I could think of nothing so much as of Bill Sykes and Nancy as I watched these two.

It was the fight of two frenzied young animals.  He would approach stealthily, seize her, and whirl her about, lifting her to his shoulder.  She was agile, docile, and fearful.  He untied a scarf and passed it about her; she leaned against it, and they whirled giddily about.  Suddenly, it seemed that he became jealous.  She would run; he follow and catch her.  She would try to pacify him; he would become more enraged.  The dance became faster and more furious.  His violent efforts seemed to be to throw her to the floor, and her streaming hair now made it seem more like a fight than a dance.  The audience hung breathless.  It ended with her dropping exhausted, a proper finale to this lowest and most brutal dance.

Panting, flushed, with an unnatural light in their eyes, they descended to the audience and, scorning the roar of applause to repeat the performance, sat at a little table.

I saw a couple of girls come over toward the man.

“Give us a deck, Coke,” said one, in a harsh voice.

He nodded.  A silver quarter gleamed momentarily from hand to hand, and he passed to one girl stealthily a small white-paper packet.  Others came to him, both men and women.  It seemed to be an established thing.