"Of course," answered the Journalist. "That sort always is."
"And I want to know," insisted the Youngster, "what became of him?"
"Why," ejaculated the Sculptor, "of course he cut his big brown throat!"
"Not a bit of it," said the Critic. "He probably went up to New York, and hung round the stage door."
"Until she called in the police, and had him arrested as a common nuisance," added the Lawyer.
"I'll bet my microscope he didn't," laughed the Doctor.
"And you won't lose your lens," replied the Journalist. "He never did a blooming thing—that is, he didn't if he existed."
"Oh, my eyes," said the Youngster. "I am disappointed again. I thought that was a simon-pure newspaper yarn—one of your reporter's dodges—real journalese!"
"She is true enough," answered the Journalist, "and her feet are true, and so is her red hair, and, unless she is a liar, and most actresses are, so is he and her origin, but as for the way she cut him out—well, I had to make that up. It is better than any of the six tales she told as many interviewers, in strict secrecy, in the days when she was collecting hearts and jewels and midnight suppers in New York."
"Is she still there?" asked the Youngster, "because if she is, I'll go back and take a look at Dora myself—after the war!"