“Let-let go of me… if I must get out, I can manage for myself!” she exclaimed, her heart constricting at the loathsome contact.

“Let’s go, then! Get that frame of yours out and no tricks,” warned the ruffian.

And, her head held high, she got out of the car, with haughty manner, her gloved hand holding her skirt daintily, her fur wrap thrown dashingly around her slim shoulders.

She looked around, trying to learn her whereabouts. This section was totally unfamiliar to her. The two men stood close by, but her chauffeur had already disappeared into the house.

Joe, the older of the two, who had stood outside the car while his companion took charge of Marcia, now menaced her with his hand buried in his overcoat pocket. “Up the stairs, sister,” he growled.

Marcia, realizing that compliance was the most sensible policy, obeyed, the two men walking behind her.

As she advanced up the wooden stairway, Bill, the younger man, murmured to Joe, “Classy gams the gal’s got… wonder who’s gonna be the first to start her off? The Boss, maybe, huh?”

“Close your trap,” harshly whispered his comrade; but Marcia had made out some of the interchange and her uneasiness mounted.

When she reached the porch, Joe went ahead of her, while Bill stayed behind, on guard; Joe rang the bell and the door was at once opened by a buxom, stern-faced woman, dressed, curiously enough, in an evening gown, with diamond pendants sparkling from her ears; her face was rouged and powdered to hide the ravages of the years. Marcia at once felt a vague distaste creep over her in the presence of this witch.

The two men slipped around her, closing the door and stood, hands in their coat pockets; Marcia was now convinced she was the victim of a kidnapping plot and her old insolence returned to her.

The woman confronted her, her eyes intent on the lavish sable coat, the air of outraged dignity, the seemingly invulnerable hauteur Of the young debutante.