of the strangers, disappointed him; he saw that she pressed at the further edge of the seat, and he pulled her nearer as he got in. "See here!" he announced, handling her. "You and me are going to have a show-down right now."
"Yes, Ket," she said. That was it; that was why she had waited.
"Hmhm," he murmured, gathering her beside him, with his arm inside her coat. "You can't pull any funny stuff on me now."
"Funny stuff?"
"About me married."
"No," she said.
Through the window beyond him appeared Orchestra Hall, and by her habit, whenever she passed the building, her eyes sought the names carved in stone—Wagner, Beethoven, Mozart.
"What's out there?" demanded Ket.
"Mozart!" she cried, and he shook her.
"You got a swell chance of pulling that stuff to-day! Mozart!" he laughed, letting the idea amuse him. "Say, I got the world by the tail. 'Jail Jazz'—say, that name's a knockout—will print half a million. And, oh, papa, the radio and records! . . . Did you see Weigal this morning? Did you see him? . . . The poor fish! He thought he could stick Henny's name in the lights and the 'lectric current would make Henny me! . . . The Echo! It's flopped to a whisper. I'll make it yell! . . ."
He required his hands to display, triumphantly, the tribute which Weigal had crammed into his pockets, and he discovered that, whereas his employer had wrapped the rolls with twenty dollar gold notes, the stuffing was mostly one dollar greenbacks.
"The cheap bum! That's Weigal for you! I'll leave him flat for that! . . . Or I'll make him pay for it.
