But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. He paced faster, stomping around. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Wild's orders. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Paintings sold off the walls. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. You were afraid of me, afraid that I should have been shocked, afraid of the scandal. She had fallen asleep. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Before her was a great Gothic portal.
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