Mary Smith finally stopped crying, dabbled her eyes with a wet handkerchief, and tried to appear brave, while she choked over the first meal she had eaten in two days. Cultus did not question her, nor did she offer any explanation, until the steaks and baked potatoes and soup and salads were but memories, and they were eating huge slices of apple pie and cheese, for which the place was famous.

There were roses in Mary Smith’s cheeks now, even if her body was still wet from the rain. Bit by bit she told her story to Cultus Collins. It was not a new tale of woe. Mary Smith had come from a little town in New England; literally ran away, because she did not want to marry a certain man, greatly desired by her parents, and because she wanted to see some of the world. She had saved enough money to buy a ticket to the Middle West, and by selling a few pieces of jewelry she was able to stretch this ticket to San Francisco, where she had an aunt.

But the aunt was not there. Lack of a business education lost her several fairly good positions. Sickness cost her all her slender savings, and just now she was a week overdue on her room rent, and the room was locked against her. For three days she had haunted the stores, trying to get a position, but they merely looked at her shabby clothes and told her that there was nothing available just now.

Cultus Collins rubbed his chin and wondered what to do. He was not financially able to give her much assistance. He could give her enough money to square up her room rent and enough for a few days of square meals. But that would not remedy the clothes proposition--and without clothes she could not hope to get a paying position.

“Just what was yuh goin’ to do--standin’ there in the rain, Mary Smith?” he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I--I don’t know. My body was numb, and I guess my mind was not far from being in the same state. It was all so hopeless, don’t you see?”

“Uh-huh, I see. And yet yuh wouldn’t go with that man.”

She shook her head. “I was going the other way.”

“Toward the bay?”

Mary Smith nodded dumbly. Cultus sighed and shook his head.

“It’s a queer old world, Mary Smith. I’ve been here two days, and I was roomin’ in a little place jist up the street from where we met. I was leavin’, yuh see. I had plenty of time, but I hurried. That’s fate, I reckon.”

“It was fate for me,” sighed the girl. “The bay seems a long way from here, Mr. Collins.”

Cultus smiled widely. “Nothin’ like a steak to make a person change their mind.”

Another couple had entered the restaurant, and came up to the next booth. The man was fairly young, sleek-haired, flashily dressed. The woman was wearing a brown traveling suit, trimmed with expensive furs, and was wearing a small hat. She was young and beautiful, in an artificial way, but just now her face was contorted with indignation, as she faced the young man.

“I suppose you think that was a smart thing to do!” she fairly snapped at him. “Is it any of your business if I want to take a little trip? Explain yourself!”

The man deposited a suitcase beside the one Cultus had placed near the booth entrance and took the girl by the arm.

“Don’t talk so damn’ loud,” he advised. “Get in there and sit down, Janice. I just wanted to be sure you wasn’t doin’ a runout on me. This don’t look right to me. I happen to know that your lawyer friend has been up to see you twice in two days, and I know you haven’t any need of legal advice. Sit down!”

They sat down in the next booth, but their voices were pitched loud enough for Cultus and Mary Smith to hear what was said.

“I’ll explain nothing,” declared the girl. “Let that pocketbook alone!-- Well, are you satisfied?”

It was evident that the man had investigated her bag.

“You’re not very well heeled, that’s true. But that don’t mean you won’t meet somebody at the Ferry Building. I heard you tell the taxi driver where to take you. Now, come clean, Janice. You were going to leave me flat. I’ve bought you clothes, diamonds, paid your rent, furnished you a car--and you run out on me.”

Came a few moments of inaudible conversation; the man’s voice was raised in anger.

“What do you care how I make my money? You’re getting rather prudish, it seems. I suppose you think that if the police get me, you’ll go along, because you spent my money, eh? Well, my money is as good as the money of that dirty bum of a lawyer! He’s as crooked as anybody in the district. Sa-a-ay! Are you giving me the gate for that welcher?”

“Your opinions do not interest me,” said the girl. “Call me a taxi. I’m sick of your insinuations.”

“Aw, pull that stuff and get a vaudeville contract! Why, you little bum, anybody would think you was Bernhardt! Snap out of it! Get away from me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Fine chance. Na-a-aw! Sit still, or I’ll knock you for a loop!”

Cultus was not so interested that he failed to see two men come in. One was the big man he had knocked into the street, while the other was of the same type as the man with the girl. They halted midway of the room, ignoring the gestures of a waiter.

Then Cultus heard the man in the booth say, “There’s that dirty welcher now! Leggo me!”

A dish crashed to the floor, as the man jerked away from the girl and stepped out beyond the curtains of the booth. The two men had turned toward it, and the big man had stepped forward, his hand reaching inside his overcoat, as the woman’s companion emerged.

There were no preliminaries. It seemed to Cultus that both men knew what this meeting would mean. He saw the man at the booth whip out a snub-nosed gun. The other man was just as quick, and both guns spat rapidly, filling the room with short, snappy reports, both men shooting as fast as they could press the trigger. It was all done in the space of a few seconds. The man at the booth entrance dropped his gun, turned around, as though to re-enter the booth, but his grasping hands tore down the hanging curtains, pulling them down on top of him, as he fell.

The other man was on the floor, trying to stay on his hands and knees. A frightened waiter had dropped a filled tray, and was running toward the back of the room.

“My God, they hit that girl, too!” someone yelled.

And then somebody cut off the lights. Cultus and Mary had got to their feet and were at the booth entrance, when the lights went out, plunging the room in darkness. But Cultus had located the exit, and now he grasped his suitcase in one hand, while with the other he clung to Mary Smith, fairly dragging her to the top of the stairs, tearing a way through the frenzied mob.

At the top of the stairs he lifted her up with one arm, fending the strugglers away with his suitcase, and plunged down the rickety stairs and out into the rain, where he let her down. Cultus knew it would only be a minute or two until the police would be there; so he hurried Mary Smith down the street, around a corner, where they found a taxi.

Into this they went, and Cultus told the driver to take them to the Ferry Building. Mary had said nothing, and by the dim light of the cab, Cultus could see that she was very white. He patted her on the shoulder, and she tried to smile.

“Hang onto yore nerve,” he whispered, and then his eyes happened to fall upon the suitcase at their feet.

It was not Cultus’ bag at all; it was the other one!

Cultus looked at it closely. Only in the dark could it have been mistaken for the battered suitcase Cultus had owned. This one was of fine finish--an expensive thing--and was filled to capacity. But Cultus did not mention it to Mary Smith.

They got out at the Ferry Building and went inside. Cultus bought tickets to Oakland. It would be ten minutes before ferry time; so he led Mary Smith to a secluded seat, putting the suitcase on his lap. It was not locked. He unfastened the nickel buckles and opened the case, while Mary gasped with astonishment. It was filled with women’s clothes; dainty things which seemed to arise from the depths of the case, as they were released from pressure.

On the top were two envelopes. The first contained a ticket and Pullman accommodations to Oreana, Arizona and a hundred-dollar bill. The other was sealed in a plain envelope. Cultus ran the blade of his knife under the flap and opened the envelope without damaging it. Together he and Mary Smith read:

Dear M:

Introducing Janice Lee, alias anything you want to call her. She knows part of the game, and is a fair actress, if you can keep her sober.

Good luck to you. Yours, L.

P. S. I only gave her a hundred out of that five you sent; so you only owe me a hundred, if it pans out all right. Better see that she gets hers, because I won’t swear to her playing on the square, unless you do.

Cultus looked sideways at Mary Smith, as he sealed the letter and replaced it in the suitcase. He removed the envelope, containing the tickets and hundred-dollar bill, which he handed to Mary Smith.

“Why give it to me?” she asked, looking queerly at him.

“Does fate scare yuh, Mary Elizabeth?” he asked softly. “I was going to Arizona, when yuh made me miss my car. I wasn’t headin’ for Oreana, but it’s on my way.”