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 kittenish about love's young dream. Eddie blushed and the woman ran blithely up the stairs laughing.

"She works in a Wall Street office," Dot said when the door one flight above them had closed with a quiet dignity. "She gets fifty dollars a week."

Eddie looked up the marble flight. There was respect in his gaze and a tinge of resentment. Fifty dollars! Could a woman be worth that much to a business firm? He doubted it. The respect vanished from his gaze; for a second the tinge of resentment lingered; then it too died. No, a woman couldn't earn fifty dollars. Some one had lied to Dot, or perhaps—he shot a quick, suspicious glance at her, but she was looking up the stairs at the door that concealed the woman, and her expression was reverential. He wouldn't tell Dot that she had been fooled. Eddie considered it a harmless deception.

"Guess I'll go," he said. "I got to get up early tomorrow morning."

Dot stood up. "I should have gone half an hour ago. I'll get killed."

Neither of them made a decisive move. The man with the pitiable air returned carrying a large paper bag. The bottom of it was wet, and small wrapped packages protruded from the top. He passed through the hall swiftly, but the odor of spiced meats and vinegar followed with slow and languid ease.

"Thursday night at eight then?"

"Yep, in front of the Chinee place." Dot turned her back and climbed two steps. "Good night, Eddie."

"Say, Dot."

She wheeled around with her dark brows raised in question. He had not moved an inch.

"Why don't you say good night in the proper way?"

"Oh." She laughed a little and flew down the stairs, a sudden swirl of white silken pleats and shining hair that danced in a mad little flare about her face.