At a far table sat a half-dozen young men who were making not a little noise over their drinks, and who had evidently dropped in at Harding's during a slumming tour. Tom, with no great pleasure, noticed Harry Simpson among them. Not wishing to meet Harry, or any of the latter's friends, and not as all like the aspect of the place itself, Tom crossed to an alcove near the room. There he sat down at the alcove's single table and ran for a waiter. Choosing a meal from the list displayed on the greasy and much thumbed menu, he gave his order and sat back to wait. He was mildly irritated to find himself in a resort so evidently savoring of the underworld. At best, he did not care for such places. And now, with another man's money in his pocket, he liked his doubtful surroundings still less. He was half-minded to get out at once. But he was very hungry. And, on second thought, he resolved to wait for his supper.

Lizzie Heisen was a lady who lived by her wits. And she had good, sharp ways to live by. She did not care for her patronymic, and early in her hectic career she had changed it to "lailette Fortescue." But an unappreciative police force had renamed her "light-fingered Liz." Lizzie had left Boston in considerable haste, as a result of her department store pickpot scandal. And now, with the aforementioned...  In appreciative police, she had decided to bury herself for a few weeks in this more or less settled university town, where she had friends who could count on to shelter her. 