“One’s observations are never very keen when they’re made through the bottom of a glass,” observed Pope.

Bob exploded irritably.  “All right, Lieutenant!  Play ‘Jerusalem’ on the cornet while I pass the tambourine.  Damn the post-mortems!  I want my wife, not a ‘Ballington Booth’ on the terrors of intemperance.  I’ve got to have her, too.  I—­can’t last this way.  She’s the only person who can straighten me up. ...  I was doing fine.  Had a job ...  I’ll go straight to hell again if I don’t find her.”  There was no doubt of the man’s sincerity:  his mental and his physical condition were obvious.

Pope did his best to repair the wreckage in some degree, and, having quieted the sufferer, he set out for Miss Demorest’s home.

Adoree, clad in a slightly soiled negligee, answered his ring, then, recognizing him, blocked the door hastily, exposing a face overcast with defiance and contempt.

“Aha!” she exclaimed.  “Aha!” and Pope’s sensitive ego recoiled before the fierce challenge of her tone.  Physically the caller stood his ground, but inwardly he retreated in disorder.  Adoree never failed to affect him uncomfortably; for he was conscious of having wronged her, and he could in no way reconcile her public reputation with his personal impressions of her.  His inability to keep her notorious character constantly in mind made him angry with himself; and, further, she offended him by assuming bewilderingly different aspects every time they met.  Invariably she greeted him with contumely; invariably he arose to the challenge and overcame her attack; invariably she fought him on every subject.  And yet all the time he vaguely suspected that they were really in complete accord and growing to like each other.

“I’ve come to see Lorelei,” he explained, affably.

“Oh, you’re looking for scandal, eh?” breathed Miss Demorest.  “Well, you won’t get it, body-snatcher!”

Pope bowed gravely.  “You overwhelm me with your courtesy,” he said.  “I do not represent the press to-day.  I’m here as a friend.  Bob’s nearly dead.”

“Serves him right.  I suppose you’ve left another reporter to take down his dying words for the evening paper.”

“Don’t be silly.  I want to see—­”

“She’s not here.”

“Then I’d like to talk with you.”  The door opened slightly, and Pope smiled, whereupon the opening narrowed.  “No.  You can’t come in.  I’ve just cleaned house.”

In desperation the man exclaimed:  “I won’t sit down, but I must talk to you.  Really, I must, about—­ducks, if nothing else.”

“Ducks!” Adoree’s expression altered.

“Let’s be sensible.  I want you to like me.”  Pope tried to appear amiable, but the effort resulted in a painful smirk.

“Huh!”

“We like the same things—­let’s be friends.  You needn’t tell me anything about Lorelei, but I do want your advice about Bob.”

“I suppose there’s no reason why you shouldn’t come in.  You’ll probably wriggle in somehow, even if you have to steal a key.  If you don’t know the truth you’ll probably make up something about Lorelei, as you did about me—­Buzzard!” Pope began to perspire, as he always did when deeply embarrassed.  But the door swung wide, and he entered with a strained, unnatural smile upon his face.