Adoree Demorest, still in her glittering, hybrid costume, but heavy-limbed and dull with fatigue, paused outside her own door early that morning. The time lacked perhaps an hour of dawn, the street outside and the building itself was silent, yet from Adoree's parlor issued the sound of light fingers upon piano-keys. Adoree entered, to find Campbell Pope, with collar loosened and hair on end, seated at the instrument. The air within the room was blue and reeking with the odor of stale tobacco-smoke, and the ash-receiver at his elbow was piled high with burnt offerings, one of which was now sending an evil-smelling streamer toward the ceiling.
Pope rose at Adoree's entrance, eying her anxiously. "Is everything all right?" he cried.
"Is what all right?"
"The—er—Lorelei."
"Oh yes! What are you doing here?"
"I suppose I must apologize. You see, I heard the news and came here after the show. When I learned where you were I decided to wait and—and help."
"You decided to—help?" Adoree eyed the disheveled musician queerly. "By smelling up my parlor and playing my poor piano all night—is that how you help? What do you mean, 'help'?"
The critic appeared to realize for the first time the lateness of the hour. Glancing at his watch, he gasped:
"Why, I had no idea it was this time. I've been here all night, haven't
I? You see, after I got in I was afraid to go out without explaining."
"What do you mean by saying you wanted to 'help'?" Miss Demorest repeated, curiously. "You've helped to break my lease—I'll be thrown out of this house sure."