On the first night he managed to spirit her out of the place before any of the habitues could locate her. The task became harder on each succeeding night, but Wilson kept the would-be suitors at bay, insisting, in the face of ribald remarks, proffered bribes, and incredulous laughter, that the girl was precisely what she appeared to be, and that he could not permit an innocent young lady to be harassed. As he was well aware, the possibility that this might be true only made the suitors more eager.

Marianne had been appearing for slightly over a week when the inevitable happened.

She was a trifle preoccupied that evening, since she had learned that Mrs. Shortbody's friend was recovering nicely, and that the landlady hoped to return home within a day or two. When that happened, she would be forced to tell Mrs. Shortbody the truth. Though she did not feel she was doing anything wrong, she had a vague, uneasy feeling that Mrs. Shortbody might not share that opinion, and she was not looking forward to telling her.

However, when she arrived at the club her spirits soared, as they always did at the prospect of performing. The applause had gone to her head; she was fast becoming stage-struck. Mr. Wilson was waiting for her, as he always was, and on his arm she swept past the crowd waiting at the stage door.

Maggie returned Marianne's smiling greeting with her usual gruff nod. The woman's manner was never effusive; Marianne did not notice that she seemed disturbed about something, nor did she pay attention when Maggie drew Wilson aside and spoke urgently to him. The manager interrupted her after a few sentences with a wave of his hand and a curt dismissal.

Marianne had gotten over her stage fright by now; she moved onto the stage with cool assurance, her dimples very much in evidence. As the orchestra played her introduction she let her eyes wander over the audience, and her heart leaped as she recognized a face she had not seen since the first night – that of the dark, Byronic gentleman. She scarcely noticed the man who was with him. The latter was stout, gray-haired – too elderly and plain to be interesting.

As she sang she let her eyes wander over the audience in professional style; and the slightest of frowns puckered her forehead when she saw another familiar face. This man had been there every night, at the same table, one of those in the row nearest to the stage – from which she deduced, correctly, that he was a favored customer. He was dressed with a richness conspicuous even in that haunt of the wealthy; the studs on his shirtfront were rubies so large as to verge on vulgarity. The gaslights brought out the lines and wrinkles on his sallow face. He was bald, except for a fringe of dark hair. His eyes were dark too, though they were so sunk in pouches of flesh that their color was scarcely discernible.

Perhaps because she was nervous about the forthcoming interview with Mrs. Shortbody the unknown's unwinking regard affected her even more unpleasantly than usual, and when she had finished her song she left the stage at once instead of acknowledging the applause as she usually did. She was annoyed to find that Maggie was not waiting with her wrap. It was the first time she had had to go to her dressing room unaccompanied, though Wilson had not continued his escort service after the first night. He had made it eminently plain to the other performers that the slightest gesture against his star would be repaid with interest. So, although Marianne's progress was followed by stares and mutters, no one molested her as she made her way back to her room.

Maggie was not there. Grumbling at the inconvenience, Marianne got out of her dress – no easy task, since it had several dozen fasteners down the back – and hung it up to prevent its creasing. She was about to slip into her cotton wrapper when the dressing-room door was opened.

Marianne did not even glance up. "So there you are! I wondered what had -"

She saw the man reflected in the mirror, and shock stopped her speaking. The rubies in his shirtfront reflected the light like drops of liquid blood.

Marianne whirled around, clutching the dressing gown to her breast. The intruder smiled, if it could be called that; a spasmodic movement of the lips that did not alter his cold, hard stare.

"Nicely done," he said in a drawl. "And quite unrehearsed! Is it possible, I wonder, that Wilson could have been telling the truth after all?"

Marianne recovered enough breath to speak. Though frightened and angry, she still did not comprehend the full extent of her danger.

"How dare you!" she exclaimed.

The man's unpleasant smile intensified. He extended a gloved hand and closed the door.

"Sir, if you do not leave immediately…" Marianne began.

"Very well, very well; you needn't play the innocent with me; I am the Honorable Percival Bagstock, and I can well afford your price. We may as well come to a private arrangement, eh? Saves paying Wilson his cut."

Marianne let out a wavering shriek.

Terror constricted her breath, so the scream was not very loud; but it had a remarkable effect on Bagstock. His face darkened with fury. Gripping his gold-headed cane, he lunged at her, moved as much by anger as by lust, for he honestly believed that Marianne's outrage was pretense, designed to raise the price of what he desired. His violent, vicious rages were well known in his own circle; even his peers tried not to irritate Bagstock. And what had he to fear from a cheap performer?

Marianne's strength was no match for his. He had her pinioned in his arms before she could scream again.

"Very well," he snarled. "If this is how you prefer it -"

Marianne felt her senses leaving her. The dark, ugly face bending over her grew blurred. Then the hard arms relaxed and Bagstock's expression changed from anger to blank astonishment. He collapsed in an ungainly heap; and there stood Maggie, the gold-headed cane still raised in the gesture with which she had struck him down.

Marianne's knees gave way. Maggie did not allow her to fall; dropping her weapon, she seized the girl's bare arms in a grip that left bruises, and shook her violently.

"Quick! Make a run for it, now, 'afore he comes to. Where's your gown? Here… No time to fasten it, throw your cloak over… Come, quick."

Automatically Marianne obeyed the commanding voice, the hasty, fumbling hands that helped her dress. Maggie pushed her out of the room and guided her down the stairs. When they reached the stage door, the doorkeeper looked up.

" 'Ere! Where do'ye think you're going?"

"A breath of air," Maggie answered, and propelled Marianne through the door before the man could reply.

The night air was not salubrious. It was thick with fog – not the black, choking pea-souper common in the later winter months, when millions of coal fires added their poisonous fumes to the dampness, but heavy enough to blur the outlines of objects and shroud the streetlights in a white veil. Supporting Marianne's swaying form, Maggie headed toward the light at the end of the alleyway. "You got money?" she demanded.

"I… My bag. I left it -"

" 'Ere it is." Maggie looped the ribbons over her limp arm. " 'Old on to it, for Gawd's sake. Curse 'im, I shoulda known.

… Seen 'im watching you, shoulda known it was a false message… Look 'ere, take 'old o' yourself, don't faint nor nothing. You know what you gotta do?"

Marianne groaned.

"Gawd 'elp you," Maggie muttered. "If you an't even more 'elpless than I thought…"

They reached the main thoroughfare. To Marianne's dazed eyes it seemed like a scene from a nightmare, a dark landscape through which shrouded forms moved like ghosts. Maggie, peering through the fog with keen, accustomed eyes, put her fingers to her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Marianne jumped. Maggie shook her again.