There was an interlude of idle chatter, then the orchestra burst into full clamor once more.  Much to the chagrin of her escort, Lorelei rose and danced away with the new-comer.

“Why the distress signal?” queried Bob.

“Mr. Bergman has—­been drinking.”

“Rum is poison,” he told her, with mock indignation.  “He must be a low person.”

“He’s getting unpleasant.”

“Shall I take him by the nose and run around the block?”

“You can do me a favor.”

He was serious in an instant.  “You were nice to me the other night.  I’m sorry to see you with this fellow.”

“He forced—­he deceived me into coming, and he’s taking advantage of conditions to—­be nasty.”

Bob missed a step, then apologized.  His next words were facetious, but his tone was ugly; “Where do you want the remains sent?”

“Will you wait and see that mine are safely sent home?” She leaned back, and her troubled twilight eyes besought him.

“I’ll wait, never fear.  I’ve been looking everywhere for you.  I wanted to find you, and I didn’t want to.  I’ve been to every cafe in town.  How in the world did you fall in with the old bell-cow and her calf?”

When Lorelei had explained, he nodded his complete understanding.  “She’s just the sort to do a thing like that.  Thompson, the first martyr, was a decent fellow, I believe; then she kidnapped Bellaire, a young wine-agent.  Tuberculosis got him, and she’s been known ever since as ‘the widow T. B.’  I suppose you’d call her ‘the leading Juvenile.’”

Lorelei felt a great relief at the presence of this far from admirable young man, for, despite his vicious reputation, he seemed clean and wholesome as compared with Bergman.  She was sure, moreover, that he was trustworthy, now that he knew and liked her, and she remembered that of all the men she had met since that newspaper scandal had appeared, he alone had betrayed no knowledge of it in word or deed.

On this occasion Wharton justified her faith.  He ignored Bergman’s scowls; he proceeded to monopolize the manager’s favorite with an arrogance that secretly delighted her; he displayed the assurance of one reared to selfish exactions, and his rival writhed under it.  But Bergman was slow to admit defeat, and when his unspoken threats failed to impress the girl he began to ply Wharton with wine.  Bob accepted the challenge blithely, and a drinking-bout followed.

The widow T. B. and her party looked on with enjoyment.

Dawn was near when the crowd separated and the hostess was driven away, leaving Lorelei at the door of a taxi-cab in company with her two admirers.  The girl bade them each good night, but Bergman ignored her words and, stepping boldly in after her, spoke to the driver.

Bob had imbibed with a magnificent disregard of consequences, and as a result he was unsteady on his feet.  His hat was tilted back from his brow, his slender stick bent beneath the weight he put upon it.