The Snowbird possessed a fertile fancy but it ran in crooked channels; although he launched his stories according to Grimm, he sailed them through seas of crime, of violence, and of bloodshed too realistic to be the product of pure imagination.  The adventures of the beautiful Princess Rouletta were blood-curdling in the extreme, and the doings of her criminal associates were unmistakably autobiographic.  Naturally Rouletta never felt free to repeat these stories, but it was not long before she began to look forward with avid interest to her nightly entertainment.

Inasmuch as Pierce Phillips went off shift at the same time as did Rouletta, they met frequently, and more than once he acted as her escort.  He offered such a marked contrast to the other employees of the Rialto, his treatment of her was at such total variance with theirs, that he interested her in an altogether different way.  His was an engaging personality, but just why she grew so fond of him she could not tell; he was neither especially witty and accomplished nor did he lay himself out to be unusually agreeable.  He was quiet and reserved; nevertheless, he had the knack of making friends quickly.  Rouletta had known men like Broad and Bridges and the Mocha Kid all her life, but Pierce was of a type quite new and diverting.  She speculated considerably regarding him.

Their acquaintance, while interesting, had not progressed much beyond that point when Rouletta experienced a disagreeable shock.  She had strolled into the theater one evening and was watching the performance when Laure accosted her.  As Rouletta had not come into close contact with any of the dance-hall crowd, she was surprised at the tone this girl assumed.

“Hello!  Looking for new conquests?” Laure began.

Miss Kirby shook her head in vague denial, but the speaker eyed her with open hostility and there was an unmistakable sneer behind her next words: 

“What’s the matter?  Have you trimmed all the leading citizens?”

“I’ve finished my work, if that’s what you mean.”

“Now you’re going to try your hand at box-rustling, eh?”

Rouletta’s expression altered; she regarded her inquisitor more intently.  “You know I’m not,” said she.  “What are you driving at?”

“Well, why don’t you?  Are you too good?”

“Yes.”  The visitor spoke coldly.  She turned away, but Laure stepped close and cried, in a low, angry voice: 

“Oh no, you’re not!  You’ve fooled the men, but you can’t fool us girls.  I’ve got your number.  I know your game.”

“My game?  Then why don’t you take a shift in the gambling-room?  Why work in here?”

“You understand me,” the other persisted.  “Too good for the dance-hall, eh?  Too good to associate with us girls; too good to live like us!  You stop at the Courteau House, the respectable hotel!  Bah!  Miller fell for you, but—­you’d better let well enough alone.”