THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
frankly. Still, there was that lack of bubbling, and it meant something.
He was glad when midnight came around and he made off for Chittenden's. He knew the critic casually, but he had never been in his apartments, rather famous in their way.
The rooms, when he arrived, were already thick with tobacco smoke. Pipes and cigars and cigarettes were going full tilt. There were about thirty men in the gathering—writers, dramatists, artists, and actors, many of them celebrated.
The great hunter espied Armitage and bored through group after group. The greeting was quiet, as it always is between two men who have known each other in stress. They fell to talking lions and tigers and black panthers or leopards until they had quite a gallery about.
During a lull Armitage idly inspected the walls. They were literally covered with photographs, all sizes and all ages, theatrical people, from Garrick down to the idol of the day. In a shadowy corner he saw one that drew him with something more than idle curiosity. There was something familiar
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