"If you knew her all the time, why didn't you say so?" Max expostulated with passion.
"I didn't know I knew her—by that name," said Whitaker lamely.
At the entrance to the alley Max paused to listen to the uproar within his well-beloved theatre.
"I'd give five thousand gold dollars if I hadn't met you this afternoon!" he groaned.
"It's too late, now," Whitaker mentioned the obvious. "But if I'd understood, I promise you I wouldn't have come—at least to sit where she could see me."
He began gently to urge Max toward Broadway, but the manager hung back like a sulky child.
"Hell!" he grumbled. "I always knew that woman was a Jonah!"
"You were calling her your mascot two hours ago."
"She'll be the death of me, yet," the little man insisted gloomily. He stopped short, jerking his arm free. "Look here, I'm not going. What's the use? We'd only row. And I've got my work cut out for me back there"—with a jerk of his head toward the theatre.
Whitaker hesitated, then without regret decided to lose him. It would be as well to get over the impending interview without a third factor.