Ralston's heart fell again.
"But you can help me?" he asked.
"I can't. I swear I can't," she replied almost hysterically, and Ralston could see that she was speaking the truth.
"Tell me," he said, "tell me, and I'll give you anything you ask—does Sullivan know?"
As he spoke the girl's face turned pale under the electric light. She nodded her head slightly, while at the same moment a thick hand descended on Ralston's shoulder and a heavy, wine-laden voice growled in his ear:
"Whatcher doin' in my seat?"
Ralston sprang to his feet and shook off the hand.
"Whatcher doin' talkin' to this lady?" inquired the other, his eyes blazing with anger. His voice rang loudly above the roar of conversation.
"Miss Davenport is a friend of mine," replied Ralston as quietly as he could.
"Frien' nothin'!" cried Sullivan. "I'll teach you to mind your own business." He took a step backward and began to pull off his dinner jacket.