Margie started, and uttered a little cry. She looked around at the same time and into the face of a man, who leered at her with a half-vicious look.
“Don’t fly so fast, my bird,” laughed the fellow. “I don’t intend to soil your plumage. You’re Miss Margie Marne, aren’t you?”
“What if I am?”
“Then you’re the very person I want to see.”
“But I don’t want to see any one.”
“I suppose not. That’s the way with some girls. I’m Caddy.”
“Who’s Caddy?” demanded Margie.
“I’m the ‘mixer’ at the Trocadero.”
The mention of that name sent a chill through the girl’s nerves, and she fell back.
“Don’t mention that horrid place!” she exclaimed.