In his own ignorance of the mysteries of the "private room" and its secret "facilities for patrons," he never dreamed that the man at his side was "light of foot, fierce at heart" as the tiger when he stole to the rendezvous arranged by Lilienthal, who had indeed offered many "choice bits" to the astute manager.

Clayton had stumbled along in New York, blinded to its dual existence, its gilded shams.
"I will never set foot in that place again," remarked Clayton, as he strode alone down University Place to the bank.

"Lilienthal must never know of my further acquaintance with the Fraeulein." And so, each keeping his own secret hugged closely to an anxious heart, the two men went along on their different paths, each drawn along by the invisible threads of life--the one dragged on by a sudden romantic, resistless passion, the other by the glowing links of the iron chains of habit, the ruling appetite of a remorseless lust.

And yet both of them were only blinded fools of passion.
The dragging days until the trysting time for the breakfast were filled up with business cares, but Randall Clayton had roamed the streets of New York at night, restlessly, since Witherspoon's sailing.

In a feverish unrest, he had visited concert halls, theaters, and searched the now deserted club-rooms for a familiar face.
A Sunday drive in the Park, and late excursions among the kaleidoscopic crowds of midnight New York filled up his time until he should again meet Irma Gluyas.
He had always turned away in disgust from the painted faces of the leering sirens of the Tenderloin, and now he sat gloomily eying the vacuous stare of the rabbit-faced stage beauties capering in their mock diamonds.