It seemed a short ride to Jack, and while it lasted not a word passed his lips. He sat in a stupor, with dull, burning eyes and a throbbing head. In all his thoughts he recalled the lovely, smiling face of Madge. And now she was lost to him forever—there was a barrier between them that severed their lives. In his heart he bitterly cursed the day when he had yielded to the wiles of Diane Merode, the popular dancer of the Folies Bergere.
The cab stopped, and he reeled up a dark flight of steps. He was sitting in a big chair in his studio, with the gas burning overhead, and Jimmie staring at him with an expression of heartfelt sympathy on his honest face.
"This was the best place to bring you," he said.
Jack rose, and paced to and fro. He looked haggard and dazed; his hair and clothing were disheveled.
"Tell me, Jimmie," he cried, "is it all a dream, or is it true?"
"I wish it wasn't true, old man. But you're taking it too hard—you're as white as a ghost. It can be kept out of the papers, you know. And you won't have to live with her—you can pension her off and send her abroad. I dare say she's after money. Women are the very devil, Jack, ain't they? I could tell you about a little scrape of my own, with Totsy Footlights, of the Casino—"
"You don't understand," said Jack, in a dull, hard voice. "I believed that Diane was dead."
"Of course you did—you showed me the paragraph in the Petit Journal."
"I considered myself a free man—free to marry again."
"Whew! Go on!"