So they pressed her until at last she yielded and in their company was borne aloft in the swaying elevator. As it jolted to a halt, she bade them good night once more, saying, "The elevator only runs this far and I live two flights above. I'll go the rest of the way alone."
But they went with her through the red painted corridors under the light of the flickering gas up the flights of stairs to a door which she opened with her own key. There at last the farewells were made, for she did not invite them to enter.
"My mother will call in the morning," said Callendar, "to see that you are not really ill. . . . Oh yes! You couldn't prevent her! You don't know her as well as I do!"
"Good night."
"Good night."
And as the door closed they caught a sudden glimpse of a man, standing timidly in the dim light of an inner room, listening with an air of curiosity to their talk. He was a small man and rather thin, and stood dressed in a shirt and trousers. His hair was rumpled; obviously he had been "sitting up." Behind him there was a table covered with papers and accounts. All this the shrewd eye of Sabine captured in one swift instant.
As they descended under the guidance of the negro, Callendar said, "The man . . . who was he?"
"Some one . . . perhaps her lover. Musicians have lovers. . . ."
Her companion turned sharply. "No . . ." he said, "not a lover. A woman with such spirit wouldn't have that sort of lover."
Sabine laughed softly and with a hint of wickedness in her voice. "You don't know women . . . how queer they can be. Besides . . ." And she indicated with a nod of her red head the listening negro. "One must be careful." But she regarded Callendar with a new interest and during the long ride back through the park she remained silent save to comment now and then upon the bits of gossip which he discussed. Knowing him so well, perhaps she understood that a new source of disturbance had crossed
