THAT afternoon Madame Violette waited in vain for Lorenzo Brayton to come into her establishment. She wanted to talk to him and convince herself that Madame Moonshine was a meddling woman and that the truth was not in her, and that Brayton still remained a captive to her own charms.
But Brayton had gone to his apartment on Riverside Drive, had abused his Japanese boy of all work roundly for no particular reason, had given him a bill of generous denomination to buy salve for his wounded feelings, and then had sulked in his den until time to retire.
In the morning, however, Lorenzo Brayton was his smiling self again, and save for a soreness at the point of the jaw the one-sided combat with Peter Satchley might not have occurred. The evening before Brayton had felt a sort of premonition and
