The dinner had scarcely started when Gray heard his name paged and left the table. In the lobby Mallow was waiting with a grin upon his face.
"Is that her?" he inquired.
"That is the girl."
"Girl? 'Arline Montague,' eh? Her name is Margie Fulton and she had her hair up when they built the Union Pacific."
"Nonsense! You're mistaken. She can't be more than twenty-five—thirty at most."
"A woman can be as young as she wants to be if she'll pay the price. Margie had her face tucked up two years ago. Cost her five thousand bucks."
"I—can't believe it."
"You see it every day. Look at the accordion-pleated beauts in the movies. Why, some of those dolls nursed in the Civil War! Those face surgeons have ironed the wrinkles out of many a withered peach, and you're dining with Margie Fulton, the Suicide Blonde. I know her kid."
"Her what?" Mallow's hearer gasped.
"Sure. She was married to Bennie Fulton, the jockey, and they had a boy. Bennie was ruled off in New Orleans and started a gambling house."