Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. Down that on the right the young culprit was dragged—along that on the left a fainting woman was borne in the arms of several females.
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