Frightened faces drew apart to let it pass. Frightened eyes gazed upon a white stretcher borne in the center of it. On it was the prone figure of a person whose face was also white.
The figure recumbent was boyish.
But it was not that of Verbeena Mayonnaise. The white face showed the delicate, feminine profile of Bertie Butternut!
In the frame of the balcony window stood another boyish figure. Sure enough this was Verbeena in all her laddie-like grace and poised with a seeming boyish indifference.
But it could be seen by those who knew her at all that Miss Mayonnaise was perturbed. For at one grab she had emptied the contents of her slim gold case and was moodily smoking six cigarettes at once.
Verbeena returned to her rooms and undressed herself.
She couldn’t keep a maid. They always ended by calling her “Sir.”
At this connecting point or juncture, there came a knock on the door and Verbeena called in her fresh, young baritone:
“Who the dickens is this and what do you want at this hour?”