When quiet had finally descended she opened her door cautiously and peered out.  Robert Wharton sat on the top step of the stairway near at hand, but his head rested against the wall, and he slept.  Beside him were his high hat, his gloves, and his stick.  As Lorelei, with skirts carefully gathered, tiptoed past him she saw suspended upon his gleaming white shirt-bosom what at first glance resembled a foreign decoration of some sort, but proved to be Mr. Regan’s false teeth.  They were suspended by a ribbon that had once done duty in the costume of a coryphee; they rose and fell to the young man’s gentle breathing.

Lorelei carried out her intention of telephoning on the following day, and about the close of the show that night Merkle’s card was brought up to her dressing-room.  A moment later Robert Wharton’s followed, together with a tremendous box of long-stemmed roses.  She went down a trifle apprehensively, for by this time the current tales of Bob’s drunken freaks had given her cause to think somewhat seriously, and she feared an unpleasant encounter.  More than once she had witnessed quarrels in the alleyway behind the Circuit, where pestiferous youths of Wharton’s caliber were frequent visitors.

But Mr. Merkle relieved her mind by saying, “I sent Bob away on a pretext, although he swore you had an engagement with him.”

“I’m glad you did.  I left him asleep outside my dressing-room last night, and I almost hoped he’d caught pneumonia.”

Beside the curb a heavy touring-car was purring, and into this Merkle helped his companion.  “I’m not up on the etiquette of this sort of thing,” he explained, “but I presume the proper procedure is supper.  Where shall it be—­Sherry’s?”

Lorelei laughed.  “You are inexperienced.  The Johns never eat on Fifth Avenue, the lights are too dim.  But why supper?  You can’t eat.”

“A Welsh rarebit would be the death of me; lobsters are poison,” he confessed; “but I’ve read that chorus-girls are carnivorous animals and seek their prey at midnight.”

“Most of them would prefer bread and milk; anyhow, I would.  But I’m not hungry, so let’s ride—­we can talk better, and you’re not the sort of man to be seen in public with one of Bergman’s show-girls.”

The banker acquiesced with alacrity.  To his driver he said, “Take the Long Island road.”

As the machine glided into noiseless motion Lorelei noted a limousine waiting near by, and saw a dim figure within.  The dome-light had been turned off, and she could detect only a white shirt-front, the blurred outline of a face, and the glowing point of a cigar.

“You can follow that man’s example if you wish,” said she, “and hide until we’re away from the bright lights.”

Merkle answered shortly, “Your reputation may suffer, not mine.”  He leaned forward and inquired of the chauffeur, “Who’s car is that?”

“Mr. Hammon’s, sir.  He’s going our way, so his man said.”