Picking up from the table a box of candies which the broker had brought her, she selected one of the sugared delicacies and popped it in her mouth. Brockton walked up and down with long, nervous strides. The girl's calmness disconcerted him. With all his experience, he was at a loss how to handle her. Perhaps he might try a final shot.

"Then the Riverside Drive proposition and Burgess's show offer are off, eh?" he said sharply.

Hesitatingly she answered:

"I don't say that."

"And if you go back on the Overland Limited day after to-morrow," he went on bitterly, "you'd just as soon I'd go to-morrow or wait until the day after you leave!"

"I didn't say that, either," she replied, replacing the candy box on the table.

He stopped short.

"What's the game?" he demanded impatiently.

"I can't tell you now."

"Waiting for him to come?"

"Exactly."

"Think he's serious, eh?"

"I know he is."

"Marriage?"

"Possibly."

He laughed ironically.

"You've tried that once," he said, "and taken the wrong end. Are you going to play the same game again?"

"Yes—but with a different card," she answered.

"What's his name?"

"Madison—John Madison."

Picking up a magazine, she slowly turned the pages.

"And his job?"

"I told you—a reporter."

The broker gave a low and expressive whistle. Sarcastically he inquired: "What are you going to live on—extra editions?"

"No, we're young, there's plenty of time," she answered calmly. "I can work in the meantime and so can he. With his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible."

Brockton chuckled to himself.

"Sounds well—a year off."

Irritated at his facetious tone and bantering manner, the girl plainly showed her resentment. Her face flushed, and, throwing down the magazine, she went towards the door of the house. Petulantly she cried:

"If I had thought you were going to make fun of me, Will, I wouldn't have talked to you at all."

Quickly he made a step forward and intercepted her.

"I don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't exactly pleasant to be dumped with so little ceremony. Maybe you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even I can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market."

She stopped and looked at him kindly. Her voice was softened as she said:

"It isn't easy for me to do this, Will. You've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when I went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. You reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. Now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little—maybe a lot—but I should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts."

The broker turned away, visibly moved. Striding up to the edge of the terrace, he stood looking down into the canon. Laura remained where he had left her, looking after him. There followed a long silence, which at length he broke.

"I'm not hedging, Laura. If that's the way you want it to be, I'll stand by just exactly what I said." Turning and looking at her, he went on: "But I'm fond of you, a damned sight fonder than I thought I was, now that I find you slipping away; but if this young fellow is on the square——"

She approached him and slipped her hand in his. He went on:

"If he's on the square, and has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why, all right. Your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children, why—I'm not going to stand in the way. Only, I don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before."

"I know," she smiled sadly, "but somehow I feel that this time the real thing has come and with it the real man. I can't tell you, Will, how much different it is, but everything I felt before seemed so sort of earthy—and somehow the love that I have for this man is so different. For the first time in my life it's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble. The only other thing I ever had that I cared the least bit about, now that I look back, was your friendship." Impulsively throwing her arms around him, she added: "We have been good pals, haven't we?"

He smiled as he fondled her.

"Yes; it's been a mighty good two years for me. I was always proud to take you around, because I think you are one of the prettiest things in New York."

Playfully, her good spirits once more in the ascendant, she jumped into the armchair with a little girlish laugh. He went on:

"You're always jolly and you never complained. You spent a lot of money, but it was a pleasure to see you spend it, and what's more, you never offended me. Most women offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you always knew the value of your beauty and you always dressed up. I always thought that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you, and make you happy in a nice way, but I thought that he'd have to have a lot of money. You know, you've lived a rather extravagant life for five years, Laura. It won't be an easy job to come down to cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities you've been used to."

She sat leaning forward, her chin resting on her hands, a serious, far-away expression on her face. Slowly she said:

"I've thought all about that, and I think I understand."

"You know how it is," he went on. "If you were working without anybody's help, you might have a hard time getting an engagement. As an actress, you're only fair."

Laura toyed impatiently with her parasol.

"You needn't remind me of that," she said testily. "That part of my life is my own. I don't want you to start now and make it harder for me to do the right thing. It isn't fair; it isn't square, and it isn't right. You've got to let me go my own way." Putting her hand on the broker's shoulder, she went on: "I'm sorry to leave you, Will, in a way, but I want you to know that if I go with John it changes the spelling of the word 'comradeship' into 'love,' and the word 'mistress' into 'wife.' Now, please don't talk any more."

"Just a word," he interrupted. "Is it absolutely settled?"

"I told you I didn't know exactly what our plans are," she answered impatiently. "I shall know to-day—that's what I'm waiting for. I can't understand why he doesn't come."

The broker, whose gaze had been idly sweeping the canon, suddenly sat up and pointed up the pass.

"Is that the fellow, coming up here?" he exclaimed.

Laura rose quickly from her seat, and, running to the balustrade, peered over.

"Where?" she asked.

"Up the road there," said Brockton, pointing. "Don't you see the man on that yellow horse?"

She looked a moment, straining her eyes.

"Yes—that's John!" Waving her handkerchief and putting one hand to her mouth, she cried out: "Hello!"

From the distance came the sound of a man's voice:

"Hello yourself!"

"Hurry up, you're late!" cried Laura, her face now flushed from pleasure and excitement.

"Better late than never," came the rejoinder.

"Hurry up," she repeated.

"Not with this horse," was the answer.

Laura turned to Brockton, her face beaming. Enthusiastically she exclaimed:

"Now, Will, does he look like a yellow reporter?"

The broker's face broke into a rather uncomfortable smile.

"He is a good-looking chap."

The girl leaned far over the balustrade to watch her lover's progress.

"Oh, he's just simply more than that!" Turning quickly to the broker, she asked: "Where's Mrs. Williams?"

He pointed indoors.

"She was in there playing bridge when I came out."

Going hurriedly to the door leading into the house, Laura called out:

"Mrs. Williams! Oh, Mrs. Williams!"

"What is it, my dear?" replied her hostess from within.

"Mr. Madison is coming up the path."

"That's good," came the reply. "He's just in time for dinner."

"Won't you come out and see him?"

"No, my child. I'm up to my neck in bridge. I'm six dollars and twenty cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck."

"Shall I invite him to dinner?"

"Yes, do, dear; and tell him to cross his fingers when he thinks of me."

The girl ran back to Brockton, who was still standing at the edge of the terrace, watching the rider's progress. Slipping her hand involuntarily through the broker's arm and looking eagerly with him over the balustrade, she asked with girlish enthusiasm:

"Do you like him?"

"I don't know him," replied Brockton with an amused smile.

"Well, do you think you'll like him?" she persisted.

"I hope I'll like him," he answered reservedly.

"Well, if you hope you'll like him, you ought to think you'll like him. He'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute, and then you can see him. Do you want to see him?"

"Why, yes—do you?" he replied, amused at her girlish enthusiasm.

"Do I?" she echoed. "Why, I haven't seen him since last night. There he is!" Waving her hand wildly, she cried out: "Hello, John!"

The rider was now close at hand, for Madison's voice was heard in all the fullness of its rich, deep tones:

"Hello, girlie! How's everything?"

"Fine!" she called back. "Do hurry."

"Tell that to this horse, will you? The word 'hurry' is not in his dictionary."

"I'm coming down to meet you," she called again.

"All right!" came the answer.

Turning quickly to Brockton, like a spoilt child, pleading for a favor, she said demurely:

"You don't care. You'll wait, won't you?"

"Sure," replied the broker laconically.

The girl ran nimbly down the stairs of the terrace, and disappeared among the cactus bushes.



CHAPTER VII.

Brockton leaned over the balustrade trying, through the increasing dusk, to catch a glimpse of the girl's slender form, as in her light summer gown she flitted among the trees. The autumn afternoon was now far advanced. The shadows of approaching night were already falling across the Pass. The golden glow that tinged the distant snow-clad peaks grew deeper in color. The lights were rapidly fading to beautiful opalescent hues.

It was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that the broker had retained his composure. What the girl had just told him was a staggering and unexpected blow. Underneath the man's stolid, business-like manner, there was a big heart. He was selfish and comfort-loving, like most men of his class and opportunities, but he was far from being as callous and blase as he pretended. He had grown to be very fond of Laura. He knew that up to this time and during her whole career he was the first man who had had any real influence over her. Since the day when they first became pals, he had always dominated, and while his moral teaching left much to be desired, he had always endeavored to keep her semi-respectable in the bohemian, unconventional kind of life she had elected to lead. His coming all the way from New York to Denver to accompany her home—for the business at Kansas City was, of course, only a pleasant fiction—was proof of his keen interest in the girl. And what a disappointment awaited him! He had come after her, only to find that she had drifted away from him. What perhaps made matters worse, he could not in the least object to the manner of her going. She had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement with him. If this new love affair really meant new life to her, respectability, happiness, he would be worse than a cad to stand in her way. Nor could he, logically, bear any malice towards the man who was taking her from him.

Presently he heard voices and footsteps on the walk below, and the next moment Laura reappeared, dragging John Madison after her. The big fellow's clothes were dusty after the long ride. His corduroy trousers were encased in leggings, and on his boots were brass spurs, such as are worn in the army. In his hand he held rather awkwardly a gray cowboy hat. As the two men faced one another, there was a dramatic pause. Each looked at the other interrogatively, with ill-disguised hostility. One felt it needed but a spark to bring about an explosion. Physically, they were both fine-looking men, although the contrast was most marked. Brockton was tall and well-built, and many considered him a handsome man, but by the side of the big Westerner, he suffered by comparison. The broker was the conventional type of Eastern business man, the style of man one meets in clubs and drawing-rooms, well dressed, well groomed; John Madison, in his six feet of muscular manhood, careless and picturesque in attire, suggested the free, open life on the plains, where men face danger as a matter of course, and are prepared to defend their lives at an instant's notice. Each man took the other's measure in silence, neither flinching a muscle. The smile faded from Madison's face, and his mouth dropped into an expression of fierce determination. For a moment, Laura almost lost her self composure. Nervous, frightened, now that she had brought them together, her voice trembled slightly from apprehension:

"Oh, I beg your pardon! Mr. Madison—this is Mr. Brockton, a friend of mine from New York. You've often heard me speak of him. He came out here to keep me company when I go home."

Madison advanced with hand outstretched. Looking the broker straight in the eye, he said:

"I am very glad to know you, Mr. Brockton."

"Thank you," returned the New Yorker with forced cordiality.

The newspaper man shuffled uneasily on his feet, as if he realized the false position in which both of them were placed, but was ready enough, if only for convenience sake, to avoid hostilities. Indeed, the broker's easy and friendly manner entirely disarmed the antagonism that Madison had long been nursing. With a side glance, at Laura, he went on:

"I've heard a great deal about you and your kindness to Miss Murdock. Anything that you have done for her in a spirit of friendliness, I am sure all her friends must deeply appreciate, and I count myself in as one."

Brockton smiled amiably, as he replied:

"Then we have a great deal in common, Mr. Madison, for I also count Miss Murdock a friend, and when two friends of a friend have the pleasure of meeting, I daresay that's a pretty good foundation for them to become friends, too."

The big fellow nodded and showed his white teeth. With a determined effort not to show himself behind his rival in cordiality, he said:

"Whatever my opinion may have been of you, Mr. Brockton, before you arrived, now I have seen you—and I'm a man who forms his conclusions right off the bat—I don't mind saying you've agreeably surprised me. That's just a first impression, but they run kind o' strong with me."

Brockton carelessly flecked the ash from his cigar as he answered in the same tone:

"Well, young man, I size up a fellow in pretty short order, and all things being equal, I think you'll do."

Laura, radiant at this totally unexpected result of the encounter, looked from one man to the other in delighted amazement. She was afraid they would fly at each other's throats, and here they were, apparently, the best of friends. Making a move towards the house she said:

"Shall I get the tea?"

"Tea?" exclaimed Madison in mock dismay.

The girl shook her finger in his face.

"Yes, tea. You know it must be tea—nothing stronger."

Madison looked comically at the broker:

"How strong are you for that tea, Mr. Brockton?"

"I'll pass," rejoined the broker, entering into the spirit of the fun, "it's your deal, Mr. Madison."

"Mine?" echoed the Westerner, laughing. "No, deal me out this hand."

Putting on her favorite little pout, Laura pretended to be angry.

"I don't think you're at all pleasant, but I'll tell you one thing—it's tea this deal or no game."

Throwing herself into a seat, she picked up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming interested in the illustrations.

Brockton moved towards the entrance to the house.

"No game then," he said laughingly. "I'm going in to help Mrs. Williams. Maybe she's lost seven dollars by this time. I may be able to get it back for her."

He disappeared in the house. Directly he was gone Laura sprang from her seat, and running up to Madison, flung her arms unrestrainedly about his neck.

"John!" she exclaimed.

"Well, dear?"

"Are you going to be cross with me?"

"Why?"

"Because he came?"

"Because who came?" he demanded, "Brockton?"

"Yes."

"You didn't know, did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"That he was coming?"

"He wired me when he reached Kansas City."

"Does he know?"

"About us?"

"Yes."

"I've told him."

"When?"

"To-day."

"Here?"

"Yes."

Madison looked at her closely for a moment. Then slowly, he asked:

"What was the result?"

"I think it hurt him."

"Naturally."

Thoughtfully, almost pensively, she added:

"More than I had any idea it would."

Madison shrugged his big, square shoulders, and sinking into a chair, said laconically:

"I'm sorry."

"He cautioned me to be very careful, and to be sure I knew my way."

"That's right," nodded Madison approvingly.

Laura took a couple of cushions from a sofa near one of the windows, and returning to where he was sitting, threw them on the ground near his chair. From the interior of the house floated the soulful strains of a Chopin nocturne. Sitting down quietly at his feet, she said softly:

"John."

"What, dear?"

"We've been very happy all summer."

"Very."

"This thing has gradually been growing on us."

"That's true," he assented.

Musingly she went on:

"I little thought when I came out here to Denver to play in a little stock company, that it was going to bring me all this happiness; but it has, hasn't it?"

He smiled indulgently and caressed her golden hair. Changing her position, she got up and sat on his knee, her arms around his neck. After a moment's silence she said:

"Now the season's over, there's nothing to keep me in Colorado. I've got to go back to New York and work."

"I know," he replied gloomily. "I've been awake all night thinking about it."

"Well?" she asked anxiously.

"Well?" he repeated, without satisfying her curiosity.

"What are we going to do?" she inquired.

He remained silent for a moment; then he said:

"Why, you've got to go, I suppose."

"Is it good-bye?"

He nodded gloomily.

"For a while, I suppose—it's good-bye."

Turning his face round so she could see it, she looked searchingly at him.

"What do you mean by 'a while'?"

"Until I get money enough together, and am making enough to support you. Then I'll come and take you out of the show business and make you Mrs. Madison."

She tightened her arm around his neck and placed her cheek lovingly against his. In one fond, pure caress she showed him all the affection of which a woman is capable. Fondling up against him she seemed like a dainty little kitten purring close to its master. Her every thought and desire seemed to be centered on this man, who had taught her for the first time the meaning of the word "love." Tenderly she said:

"John, that is what I want above everything else."

He smiled fondly at her. Gravely he said:

"But, Laura, dear, we must come to some distinct understanding before we start to make our plans. We're not children."

"No, we're not," she assented positively.

Rising from his knee, she went to the side of the porch and, leaning her elbows on the balustrade, gazed meditatively out into the valley.

"Now, in the first place," he continued, "we'll discuss you, and in the second place we'll discuss me. We'll keep nothing from each other, and we'll start out on this campaign of decency and honor, fully understanding its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on either side."

Laura turned and looked at him. Her face was pale and serious. Yes, plain words must be spoken between them and the proper time was now—so he might yet draw back, if he found he could not take her as she was.

"You mean," she said in a tone so low that he hardly caught it, "that we should tell each other all about each other so, no matter what is said about us by other people, we'll know it first."

Madison rose and paced the porch nervously:

"That's precisely what I'm trying to get at," he said.

The girl was silent for a moment; then hesitatingly she said:

"Well, John, there are so many things I don't want to speak of—even to you. It isn't easy for a woman to go back and dig up a lot of ugly memories and try to excuse them——"

He interrupted her:

"I don't ask that. I know your life, as I told you. That makes no difference now. The past is past. I love you as I know you, as you are to-day. It's only the future we want to worry about. Laura, the habit of life is a hard thing to get away from. You've lived in this way for a long time. As my affianced wife you'll have to give it up. You'll have to go back to New York and struggle along on your own hook, until I get enough together to come for you. I don't know how long that will be." Determinedly, almost fiercely, he added: "But it will be. Do you love me enough to stick out for the right thing?"

The girl said nothing. Her bosom heaved and her mouth quivered. She appeared deeply moved. Then, suddenly, going quickly up to her companion, she threw her arms affectionately around his neck. Earnestly she said:

"Yes, John. I think this is my one great chance. I do love you, and I want to do just what you say."

The big fellow's face beamed with content and happiness as fondly he caressed her hair.

"I think you will, little girl," he said. "And I'm going to make the same promise. I've been no angel myself. Ever since I've been able to earn my own living, I've abused every natural gift God gave me. This restlessness and love of adventure has kept me where I am. My life hasn't been exactly loose, but it's been all in pieces. I've frittered my time and opportunities away just for the fun of it. But, Laura, dear—when I met you and began to know you I realized for the first time that I was making an awful waste of myself. Now it's all different. Give me time—only a few months—and I'll show you what I can do."

"John!"

It was all she could say, but he understood, and clasping her passionately, his head dropped lower over her face, until his warm lips met her unresisting mouth. When, after a blissful interval, she looked up, he saw that there were tears in her eyes. Tenderly he said:

"Some lovers place a woman on a pedestal and say: 'She never has made a mistake.' Well, we don't need any pedestals. I know you will never make a mistake again."

Gravely she placed both her hands on his square shoulders. Looking him straight in the eyes, she said:

"John, I will never make you take those words back."

"That goes double," he rejoined laughingly. "You're going to cut out the cafes and the lobster suppers, and I'm going to cut out my shiftlessness and indolence. You're going to be somebody, and if my hunch is worth the powder to blow it up, we'll show folks things they never thought were in us. We'll begin right now. You're ready, ain't you, dear?"

"Yes, I'm ready."

Pointing towards the house, he said:

"Then call him."

"Brockton?"

"Yes, tell him you go back to New York without any traveling companion."

She hesitated and looked perplexed. She was hardly prepared to act so quickly as this.

"Now?" she demanded.

"Now," he said firmly.

She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. Timidly she said:

"You want to hear me tell him?"

He smiled.

"We're partners, aren't we? I ought to be in on any important transaction like that, but it's just as you say."

The girl nodded. Hesitatingly she said:

"I think it would be right you should. I'll call him now."

"All right."

He strolled carelessly in the direction of the stairway, while Laura moved towards the house. It was dark now outside, and the interior of the bungalow was already lighted up. Halting just outside the front door, she called:

"Mr. Brockton! Oh, Mr. Brockton!"

"Yes?" answered the broker's voice from inside.

"Can you spare a moment to come out here?"

"I'll be there presently."

"No—now," she insisted. "You must come now."

"All right, I'm coming."

She waited for him until he appeared.



CHAPTER VIII.

There were few things that Brockton enjoyed more than a game of bridge. So long as the cards went his way, he was dead to the world. Having routed his opponents and carried everything before him for the last half hour, he was feeling in particularly good humor, and it was only with a mock grimace that he protested at being disturbed.

"Say, Laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that mad speculation in there. I thought I might make my fare back to New York, if I played until next summer." Dropping his jesting tone, he inquired interrogatively: "What's up?"

"Mr. Madison wants to talk to you, or rather I do, and I want him to listen."

The broker gave her one keen look. She did not have to explain what the talk was to be about. He understood instinctively. Instantly, his manner changed. The easy jocularity vanished. Once more he was the shrewd, hard, calculating business man. Coldly he said:

"Very well—what is it about?"

Descending the steps, he came down the terrace to where Laura and Madison were seated. The girl began:

"Say, Will——"

"Yes," he answered icily.

"I'm going home day after to-morrow, on the Overland Limited."

He nodded.

"I know."

Awkwardly and glancing nervously at Madison, as if to gain courage, she went on:

"It was awfully kind of you to come out here and offer to escort me back to New York, but—under the circumstances—I'd rather you'd take an earlier—or a later train."

The broker looked from one to the other. Coolly he asked:

"May I ask what circumstances you refer to?"

Timidly she went on:

"Mr. Madison and I are going to be married." She paused for a moment, as if in a dilemma how best to put it. Finally she said: "He knows of your former friendship for me, and he thinks it must end."

The broker gave a grunt. He was raging within, but what was the use of being unpleasant over it? He could not alter matters. Trying to appear unconcerned, he said:

"Hum! Then the Riverside Drive proposition, with Burgess's show thrown in, is off, eh?"

"Yes," she replied firmly, "everything is absolutely declared off."

Brockton shrugged his shoulders. With an inward chuckle he said ironically:

"Can't even be friends any more, eh?"

Madison, who had listened without interfering, now rose and stepped forward. Fixing the broker with a cold stare, he said:

"You could hardly expect Miss Murdock to be friendly with you—under the circumstances." Assisting Laura to put a scarf across her shoulders, he added: "You could hardly expect me to sanction any such friendship."

Brockton gave a careless nod. Patronizingly he said:

"I think I understand your position, young man, and I agree with you perfectly, that is—if your plans turn out successful."

"Thank you," said Madison stiffly.

Going up to the broker, Laura held out her hand. With a smile she said:

"Then everything is settled, just the way it ought to be—frankly and above board?"

Brockton took her hand, and held it in his for a minute. With a visible effort to conceal his feelings, he said:

"Why, I guess so. If I was perfectly confident that this new arrangement was going to result happily for you both, I think it would be great, only I'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become serious and then fail, I know how hard these things hit, having been hit once myself."

Madison looked at him as if trying to gauge his full meaning. Then quietly he said:

"So you think we're making a wrong move, and there isn't a chance of success, eh?"

"No, I don't make any such gloomy prophecy. If you make Laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and together you win out, I'll be mighty glad. As far as I am concerned, I shall absolutely forget every thought of Laura's friendship for me."

The girl looked grateful.

"I thought you'd be just that way," she said.

The broker rose and advancing, took both her hands. There was more than a suspicion of emotion in his voice as he said:

"Good-bye, girlie—be happy." Turning to the newspaper man, he said: "Madison, good luck." Shaking him cordially by the hand he added: "I think you've got the stuff in you to succeed, if your foot don't slip."

The newspaper man looked at him inquiringly. Curtly he demanded:

"What do you mean by my foot slipping, Mr. Brockton?"

The broker returned his gaze steadily.

"Do you want me to tell you?"

"I sure do."

Brockton turned to Laura, who stood listening, rather uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking.

"Laura," he said quietly, "run into the house and see if Mrs. Williams has won another quarter. Madison and I are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly chat. When we get through, I think we'll both feel better."

She looked at him anxiously. Fearfully she asked:

"You are sure that everything will be all right?"

"Sure," he said smilingly.

She looked at Madison, as if for reassurance. He nodded and she went towards the house. When she had disappeared, Brockton held out a handsomely engraved gold cigar case.

"Have a cigar?" he said cordially, as if to make things as amicable as possible.

"No—I'll smoke my own," replied Madison coldly.

The men sat down and there was a short silence, during which they lit and puffed at their cigars. It was now pitch dark outside, and the brilliant illuminations in the interior of the house only served to intensify the almost opaque blackness of the grounds. Nothing could be seen but the glow of each man's cigar, as he puffed it silently. The broker broke the long pause.

"What's your business?" he demanded curtly.

"What's yours?" retorted the Westerner quickly.

"I'm a broker."

"I'm a reporter."

"What kind?" inquired Brockton.

"General utility—dog fights, and dramatic criticisms."

"Pay you well?" asked Brockton carelessly.

The journalist started and looked up sharply at his interlocutor.

"That's a pretty fresh question!" he exclaimed. "What's the idea?"

"I'm interested—that's all," replied Brockton coolly. Knocking the ash off his cigar, he continued: "I'm a plain man, Mr. Madison, and I do business in a plain way. Now, if I ask you a few questions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it in your head that I'm jealous or sore, but simply I don't want either of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain and trouble. If you want me to talk sense to you, all right. If you don't we'll drop it now. What's the answer?"

Madison listened attentively until he stopped speaking. Then he looked up, his manner defiant and aggressive.

"I'll take a chance," he said contemptuously, "but before you start I want to tell you that the class of people you belong to, I have no use for—they don't speak my language. You are what they call a manipulator of stocks. That means that you are living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread—yes—and your cake and your wine, too, from the sweat and toil of others. You're a safe gambler, a 'gambler under cover.' Show me a man who's dealing bank; he's free and above board. But you—you can figure the percentage against you, and then if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. With you Wall Street men, the game is crooked twelve months of the year. From a business point of view, I think you're a crook!" He paused, as if to see the effect of his words. Then he added: "Now I guess we understand each other. If you've got anything to say, why—spill it."

Brockton rose impatiently. His voice rising in anger, he said:

"We're not talking business now, but women. How much money do you earn?"

For a moment Madison was taken aback by the very impudence of the question. He glared at his questioner, and half rose from his seat with a threatening gesture. But noting the cool and composed manner of the broker, he merely shrugged his shoulders. Clenching his teeth, he leaned forward and said warningly:

"Understand, I don't think it is any of your damned business! But I'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. Take my tip, however. Be mighty careful how you speak about the girl, if you're not looking for trouble."

Paying no attention to the covert threat, Brockton went on:

"How much did you say you made?"

"Thirty dollars a week."

The broker gave vent to a low, but expressive whistle. Elevating his eyebrows, he asked:

"Do you know how much Laura could make if she took a job just on her own merits?"

Madison shook his head. Impatiently he replied:

"As I don't intend to share in her salary, I never took the trouble to inquire."

"She'd get about forty dollars."

"That laps me ten," retorted the other.

Brockton persisted.

"But how are you going to support her?" he demanded. "Her cabs cost more than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day walking hat. She's always had a maid. Her simplest gown flirts with a hundred dollar note. Her manicurist and her hairdresser will eat up as much as you pay for your board. She never walks when it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. She dines in the best places in New York, and one meal costs her more than you make in a day. Do you imagine for a moment that she's going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time?"

"I intend to give them to her," replied Madison promptly.

"On thirty dollars a week?"

"I propose to go out and make a lot of money."

"How?"

"I haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if I ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be."

Brockton looked skeptical.

"Never have made it, have you?" he said.

"I have never tried," replied Madison doggedly.

"Then how do you know you can?"

"I'm honest and energetic, that's how I know!" retorted the journalist. With a sneer he added: "If you can get great wealth the way you go along, I don't see why I can't earn a little."

Puffing vigorously at his expensive perfecto, Brockton strode leisurely up and down the terrace. He spoke calmly and dispassionately, as if he personally were not in the least concerned with the subject under discussion. From his manner one might take him for an elderly brother advising a junior of life's many pitfalls.

"That's where you make a mistake," he said coolly. "Money doesn't always come with brilliancy. I know a lot of fellows in New York who can paint a fine picture, write a good play, and when it comes to oratory they've got me lashed to a pole. But, somehow, they never make money. They're always in debt. They never get anything for what they do. In other words, young man, they are like a sky rocket without a stick—plenty of brilliancy, but no direction. They blow up and fizzle all over the ground."

"That's in New York," interrupted Madison scornfully. "I'm in Colorado. I guess you know there is a difference."

The broker shrugged his shoulders.

"I hope you'll make your money," he said carelessly, "because, I tell you frankly, that's the only way you can hold this girl. She's full of heroics now, self sacrifice, and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the windows and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me—she'll change her tune!" Suddenly confronting his rival, he went on: "You're in Colorado writing her letters once a day with no cheques in them. That may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one who for ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do, is not going to let up for any great length of time. So take my advice, if you want to hold her, get that money quick, and don't be so damned particular how you get it, either."

Madison started quickly to his feet, his fists clenched. Savagely he exclaimed:

"Of course, you know you've got the best of me——"

"How?" demanded Brockton coolly.

"We're guests. I have to control myself."

"No one's listening," said the broker.

"'Tisn't that," snapped the other impatiently. "If it was anywhere but here, if there was any way to avoid all the nasty scandal, I'd come a-shootin' for you and you know it——"

"You're a fighter, eh?" sneered Brockton.

"Perhaps," snapped the journalist. There was a dangerous gleam in his eye, as he went on: "Let me tell you this. I don't know how you make your money, but I know what you do with it. You buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity, and then you pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. And those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. Manhood?" he echoed contemptuously. "Why, you don't know what the word means! Yours is the attitude of a pup and a cur."

Brockton turned. His lips were compressed, his eyes flashed. Starting angrily forward he exclaimed:

"Wait a minute, young man, or I'll——"

Madison gave one stride towards him, and for a moment both men stood confronting each other, their fists clenched. Their primal instincts were aroused. Like wild beasts, full of savage hatred, they were hungry and ready to fly at each other's throats.

"You'll what?" demanded Madison, raising his fist.

"Lose my temper and make a damned fool of myself," retorted the broker retaining his sang froid only by the greatest effort. With an attempt at jocularity he went on: "That's something I've not done for—let me see—why, it must be nearly twenty years—oh, yes—fully that——"

He smiled and Madison, disarmed, fell back. In a sulky undertone, the Westerner grumbled:

"Possibly it's been about that length of time since you were human, eh?"

"Possibly—but you see, Mr. Madison, after all, you're at fault——"

"Yes?"

"Yes, the very first thing you did was to lose your temper. Now people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, and you admit that that is a great necessity—I mean now—to you——"

Turning on his heel, Madison picked up a newspaper and slammed it down angrily on a seat.

"I can't stand for the brutal way you talk!" Leaning on the balustrade and looking into the dark depths below, he lapsed into a sullen silence.

Brockton approached him.

"But you've got to stand it," he said. "The truth is never gentle. Most conditions in life are unpleasant, and if you want to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. That's the only way you can fight them and win!"

Madison turned around. The rage was gone out of his eyes, and his voice had regained its equanimity. Decisively he said:

"I believe Laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the disagreeable logic of it. I think she loves me. If she should ever want to go back to the old way of getting along, I think she'd tell me so. So you see, Brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the subject."

Crossing to the other side of the terrace, he dropped into a chair, and lit another cigar. Brockton followed him.

"And if she should ever go back and come to me," said the broker slowly and impressively, "I am going to insist that she let you know all about it. It'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be double crossed——"

Madison laughed scornfully.

"That's very kind. Thanks!"

"Don't get sore," said Brockton. "It's common sense, and it goes, does it not?"

"Just what goes?" demanded the journalist, turning sharply.

Brockton eyed him gravely for a second or two; then he said slowly:

"If she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me, I'll make her let you know just when and why——"

A fierce flame again blazed out from the big fellow's eyes. He half started from his chair, and he flung his fist out threateningly.

"Look out!" he cried.

"I said 'common sense,'" rejoined Brockton quietly.

"All right," replied his rival, more calmly.

"Agreed?" demanded the broker.

"You're on," muttered Madison.



CHAPTER IX.

The Rialto, flooded with the warm sunshine of a glorious spring morning, presented its every-day aspect of leisurely gaiety and business bustle. The theatrical season was already on the wane; each day Broadway's pavements in the immediate vicinity of Forty-second Street became more congested with lean-looking thespians, just in from "the road." The Rialto—the haven of every disheartened barnstormer, the cradle of every would-be Hamlet! An important section of the big town's commercial life, yet a world apart—the world of the theatre, a shallow, artificial, unreal land, with laws and manners all its own; a region of lights and tinsel and mock emotions, its people frankly unmoral and irresponsible as a child, yet ever interesting and not unlovable; luxury-loving and extravagant, flush to-day, bankrupt to-morrow; inflated with false pretense and exaggerated self importance, yet tender-hearted and ingenuous to a fault, and not without their sphere of usefulness—theirs the mission "to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature," and in tragedy and comedy, move mankind to tears and laughter, while upholding the best traditions of a noble art.

Sweeping northwards from Herald Square as far as Forty-seventh Street, the Rialto, on this particular morning, did full credit to the famous public mart in Venice, from which it took its picturesque name. Here in the heart of theatredom was the players' curb market, the theatrical rendezvous of the metropolis, where the mummer comes both to talk shop with his fellow actor, and seek a new engagement. On every side luxurious theatres reared their stately facades, box-offices open for business invited all to enter, obstreperous ticket speculators jostled passersby in their eagerness to sell their seats. Street hoardings, ash barrels and sandwich men were plastered with flamboyant multi-colored show bills. The play, and nothing but the play was certainly the thing; the hapless stranger was buffetted in a maelstrom of theatrical activity. The very air reeked of calcium and grease paint.

The sidewalks were crowded with actors of all ages, some smartly dressed, others seedy-looking and down at heel. They stood chatting idly in little groups, thronged the doors of managers' offices and dramatic agencies, promenaded up and down with self-conscious strut. If some were seedy, all looked sanguine and happy. Actors and actresses both, they laughed and joked and patted one another on the back, as they strove to outdo each other in narrating wonderful experiences on the road. Right and left one heard the younger players exclaim exuberantly: "Great notices!—made the hit of my life!—am to be starred next season!—manager crazy for me to sign!" The bystanders, older than the speakers, listened politely and nodded approvingly, but did not seem otherwise impressed. Old-timers these, they knew too well the symptoms of the novice. Every beginner had these illusions, like the measles; then, as one got older in the "perfesh" one became immune. Had they not had many such attacks themselves? They had dreamed of playing Brutus, Macbeth and Romeo before crowded houses, and having their names spelled out in blazing electric letters over the entrance of Broadway theatres, yet here they were to-day, just where they stood twenty years before, playing general utility at forty dollars a week, and only thirty-six weeks in the year! Need one wonder that their eyes were tired and their faces lined? Their clothes were shabby, all ambition had been ruthlessly crushed out of them, but no matter. They still stood sunning themselves on the Rialto, listening good naturedly to the youngsters' prattle. Now and then grim tragedy could be detected stalking behind comedy's mask. Haggard faces and shabby clothes spoke eloquently of poverty's pinch. A long summer ahead and nothing saved. Well—what of it? That was nothing unusual. If times were hard and engagements few, that was the price the mummer must pay. Why did he go into the rotten business? By this time he painfully realized that all cannot be stars, to own automobiles and fine country houses and have the managers and the public worshipping at their feet. Some must be content to belong to the humble rank and file, and these were the kind that haunted Broadway.

Two loungers, one a young actor, the other a man considerably his senior, stood talking at the corner of Forty-second Street, opposite the entrance to the Empire Theatre. The younger man was pale and sickly looking, and his long hair, classic features, and general seedy appearance stamped him as a "legit," or a player whose theatrical activities had been confined to Shakespearian and the classic dramas.

Why actors who specialize in the legitimate should be invariably careless in their personal appearance has yet to be explained. Their fellow-artists, who play in modern comedy, usually appear on the street trig and well groomed. Their clothes, cut in the latest fashion, and the way they wear them, constitute valuable factors in their success. But the Benvolios, the Mercutios and Horatios and other heroes of the romantic and standard dramas, are, in private life, a queer and sad-looking lot. Their excuse may be that for the historical dramas the manager furnishes the costumes, whereas for the modern play the player has to provide his own.

This particular actor wore a faded Fedora hat, his trousers were baggy at the knee, and he tapped impatiently on the pavement with a cheap little cane. His attitude was one of general discouragement, which was not surprising, seeing that after playing Shakespeare in the one-night stands all season, he found himself stranded on Broadway without a cent. While he confided his troubles to his old friend, Jim Weston, he cast envious glances at other fellow actors, more fortunate than he, who were entering a red-curtained chop house close by. As his olfactory organ caught the delicious odors of grilling steaks and juicy roasts, he winced. That morning he had breakfasted but meagerly, and when again the hunger pangs seized him there would be no chop house for him. He must slink into the little dairy round the corner and lining-up at the lunch counter, together with a dozen other thespians in like straits, shamefacedly order a glass of milk and piece of pie.

"Do you think it's any merrier for me?" exclaimed Weston, after he had listened to the other's hard-luck story. "Why, man alive, I'm ready to give up. I've tramped Broadway for nine weeks, until every flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. It's something fierce!"

Jim Weston was only one of the many hundred human derelicts cast away on the theatrical strand. An advance agent of the old school, he found himself at the age of fifty outdistanced by younger and more active men. In the three decades of his life, which he had devoted to the service of the stage, he had seen the gradual evolution of the theatrical business. The old-time circus and minstrel men had been pushed aside and younger men, more up-to-date in their methods, had taken their place. Jim realized that he was a back number, but he hung on just the same. He was too old now to begin learning a new trade. He had given all the energy of his youth to the service of the theatre and now he was older and not so active the theatre had gone back on him. Often he had thought of ending it all, there and then, but that he mused, was the coward's way. There was the "missis" and the "kids." He wasn't going to desert them. So day after day, he kept on tramping Broadway, haunting the agencies, in the hope of something turning up.

His companion, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, tapped the pavement nervously with his cane, and Weston continued:

"Got a letter from the missis this morning. The kids got to have more clothes, there's measles in the town and mumps in the next village. I've just got to raise some money, or git some work, or the first thing you'll know, I'll be hanging around Central Park on a dark night with a club."

"Hello, Jim!" hailed a feminine voice in greeting.

The two men quickly looked up. An attractive, stylishly dressed young woman had halted. A smile of recognition lit up the agent's wan face, and starting forward, he shook warmly the proffered hand. The actor, touching his hat, turned to go. To Weston, he said:

"If you hear of anything in my line, bear me in mind, old man."

"I will, Ned, never fear. Good-bye and good luck."

The actor strolled on and the agent turned to his feminine acquaintance:

"Why, Elfie St. Clair!" he exclaimed, "I haven't seen you for an age."

It was Elfie St. Clair, bearing, as usual, all the outward signs of prosperity. Like most women of her class, she always over-dressed. From her picture hat and jeweled neck, to her silk stockings and dainty patent leather slippers, she had them all on, and more than one passerby turned to stare. Extravagant clothes which, on Fifth Avenue would be taken as a matter of course, caused a mild sensation among the general dullness of the busy Rialto. But Elfie ignored the attention she attracted, and went on chatting, unconcerned. What did she care if people guessed how she made the money to dress as she did? She was too old at the business for that, too hardened, yet with all her effrontery, she had at least one redeeming virtue. In her days of prosperity she was never too proud to greet or help old friends. She had met Jim Weston years ago. He was press agent for the first company she joined, and she had not forgotten trifling little services he had rendered her at that precarious time. With a glance at his shabby clothes, she asked:

"What are you doing now?"

"Same as usual—nothing!" he answered dryly.

"Down on your luck, eh?" she said sympathetically.

"Never had any luck," he grumbled.

"Been out long?"

"Only six weeks the whole season. Show busted. I'm on my uppers for fair this time—eligible for the down-and-out club. No prospects, either."

The girl made a motion with her pocketbook. Kindly she said:

"Say, Jim—let me loan you a ten spot—we're old pals, you and I——"

He shook his head determinedly. Almost savagely, he exclaimed:

"No, I'll be d——d if I do! The river before that. Thank God, I still have my self respect left!" Quickly changing the topic, he went on: "I met an old friend of yours the other day."

"Who?"

"Laura Murdock."

The girl started.

"Laura!" she exclaimed. "Why, I haven't seen her for months—only once since she went to Denver and fell in love with a newspaper man. Wasn't that perfectly crazy? I was always afraid she would do something of the sort. There is a sentimental streak in her, you know. I did all I could to dissuade her, but it was no use. She had made up her mind to be good, and that was the end of it. Such a pity! She was getting on so fine. You know, of course, that she has cut out Brockton, and the rest of the crowd. I've quite lost sight of her. Where did you see her?"

The agent's thin lips then tightened into a grim smile.

"You'd hardly know her now," he said.

The girl looked inquiringly at him.

"Not know her—why?"

Hesitatingly he went on:

"Wal—you know how it is when things don't seem to go just right. Laura never was over strong with the managers unless she had a good pull, and now she's shifting for herself, they've gone back on her. She got a fairly good part at the beginning of the season, but she didn't make good. The critics hit her pretty hard, and the manager gave her two weeks' notice. Since then she's been playing such parts as she can get, but I guess she ain't averaged fifteen dollars a week the whole blessed winter."

"Where is she now?"

"At Mrs. Farley's. She has a small room there. I think she pays four dollars a week—when she pays it. You know Mrs. Farley's. I'm stopping there, too. It ain't exactly swell, but it's better than the park, especially on cold nights."

Elfie turned pale under her cosmetics. Too well she knew the horrors of poverty. She was shocked to hear that one of her own sisterhood should be reduced to such straits as these. The lightning had struck uncomfortably near home. Besides she had always been fond of Laura. Yes, she knew Mrs. Farley's, a shrewish Irishwoman, who kept a cheap theatrical boarding house in Forty ——th Street. Ten years ago, in the days when she was a stage beginner, struggling to make both ends meet, she had lived there and as she looked back on those days of self denial and humiliation she shuddered.

"I'm awfully sorry," she said, her voice trembling from unaffected emotion. "Tell Laura you met me and say I had no idea of it. Tell her I'll come and see her the very first opportunity. Goodbye."

A smile and a nod, and she disappeared, swallowed up in the vortex of humanity that swirls in eddies along the Great White Way. The agent stood looking after her. With a sagacious shake of his head, he murmured to himself:

"I don't know but that she's the wise one, after all. What's the good of being decent? The world respects the man who can wear fine duds. Nobody asks how he got 'em. One's a fool to care. Every one for himself and let the devil take the hindmost."

Having thus unburdened himself of this philosophical reflection, Jim Weston proceeded on his way. Continuing north up Broadway as far as Forty-third Street, he crossed Long Acre Square and stopping in front of a dilapidated-looking brown-stone house, climbed wearily up the steep stoop. The house was one of the few old-fashioned private residences still left standing in the business section of the city. Some forty or more years ago, when Long Acre was practically a suburb of New York, this particular house was the home of a proud Knickerbocker family. Its rooms and halls and staircases rang with the laughter of richly-attired men and women—the society of New York in ante-bellum days. But in the modern relentless march uptown of commercialism, all that remained of its one-time glory had been swept away. The house fell into decay and ruin, and while waiting for it to be pulled down entirely, to make room for an up-to-date skyscraper, the present owners had rented it just to pay the taxes. And a queer collection of tenants they had secured. A quick-lunch-counter man occupied the basement: a theatrical costumer had the front parlor, with armor and wigs, and other bizarre exhibits in the window. Up one fight of stairs was a private detective bureau, while on the next flight was a theatrical agency, presided over by a Mr. Quiller—foxy Quiller, his clients nicknamed him, where actors and actresses out of employment, might or might not, hear of things to their advantage.

There was no elevator and the stairs were dark and fatiguing to climb. By the time he had reached the top, Jim Weston was out of breath. Halting a moment to get his wind, he then continued along a hall until he came to an office, the door of which was opened. He entered.

In a large gloomy-looking room, scantily lighted by two windows, which looked as if they had not been washed for months, a score of men and women were sitting in solemn silence, on as many rickety chairs. That they were professionals "out of engagement" was evident at a glance. The women wore smart frocks, and the men were clean shaven, but there was an obsequious deference in their manner and a worried, expectant expression on their faces that one sees only in dependents anxious to please. In the far corner, near the window, was Mr. Quiller's private office, on the frosted glass door of which was the word "Private." Above the door, and all about the room were large cards bearing such friendly greetings as: "MY TIME'S WORTH MONEY! DON'T WASTE IT." "THIS IS MY BUSY DAY; BE BRIEF." "DON'T COME TILL I SEND FOR YOU—THIS MEANS YOU!" The other decorations consisted of a number of theatrical photographs tacked here and there on the walls and a few old playbills. At a desk near the entrance, a slovenly office boy sat reading a dime novel.

He looked up as Jim entered and nodded with familiar insolence. The advance man was no stranger there. Each day for months past, he had climbed those dingy stairs, only to get the same discouraging answer: "Nothing doing." Yet he had persevered. He never let a day go by without dropping in at least once. There was always the chance of something turning up. Approaching the desk he inquired:

"Mr. Quiller in?"

"Busy!" growled the boy. With a gesture of his hand toward the others already waiting, he said insolently: "All them people is here before you."

Actors and actresses, when they are recognized as human beings at all, are only "people" in managerial offices. The ordinary courtesies of life do not extend to the humble player. The star, the public favorite, is courted and fawned upon by the cringing theatre director, but the rank and file of the profession are just "people". If the office boy was rude, he merely reflected the scornful attitude of his superiors.

Weston quickly took a seat and waited. The others were strangers to him. Their faces were familiar from seeing them frequently in the same place, and he guessed that they had come on the same mission as himself. Secretly, he felt sorry for them, especially for the women, some of whom were young and pretty. They looked thin, careworn and sad. Ah, who knew better than he, how hard and disappointing a career it was! They were only beginners and already they were bitterly disillusioned, while he had gone through it all and come out—a wreck!

The silence was awkward and oppressive. Through the closed door of the private office was heard a man's harsh voice; then a woman's softer tones in reply. One of those waiting whispered to a neighbor and then some one laughed, which relieved the unnatural tension. All forced themselves to appear cheerful and unconcerned, each secretly ashamed to be there, humiliated at being subjected to the same treatment as menials in this Intelligence office of the stage.

Two women were talking in an undertone and Weston, sitting close by, could not help hearing what they said. One, an attractive, modest-looking girl, was almost in tears, complaining bitterly of indignities to which she had been subjected by a manager.

"I wouldn't stand for it," she said, "so he gave me two weeks' notice, on the pretext that the author didn't like me in the part. He knew he was lying—my notices were fine! Such a time as I had with him! I made a hit on the opening night. He came back on the stage and invited me to supper. As he talked of signing with me for five years, I didn't dare refuse. At supper he let me understand what the price would be. I instantly rose from the table and told him I wasn't that kind of a girl. Then he got mad. He told me to think well before I made the mistake of my life. He said no girls got along on the stage unless they consented to these conditions, and that if I refused I would be blacklisted by every manager in town. I didn't even deign to answer. I called a cab and left him. The following day I got my walking papers. I did not care so much about leaving the company. Under the circumstances I couldn't have stayed and retained my self respect. I laughed at his threat, but I've since found it was no idle one. I've been turned down everywhere."

Her companion, an older woman, more sophisticated and more worldly, shook her head sympathetically:

"Nonsense, child, that's only a coincidence. It's preposterous to imagine for a moment that reputable managers would lend themselves to anything of the kind. You happened to come across a scoundrel—that's all. Broadway's full of such human vultures—more's the pity—and they're giving the stage a bad name. But a woman doesn't have to be bad unless she wants to be. Maybe advancement is quicker by the easiest way, but the good girls get there just the same, if they've talent. Look at the women who have succeeded on the stage and whose name not a breath of scandal has ever touched. Take, for instance, Maude——"

Before she could complete the name, the door of Mr. Quiller's sanctum opened, and a young woman emerged, followed to the threshold by the dramatic agent, a jaundiced little man, with ferret-like eyes, and a greasy frock coat.

"Next!" he exclaimed in a rasping voice.

"Miss Durant!" called out the office boy.

The woman whose warm championship of the stage had been so abruptly interrupted, rose with alacrity and disappeared behind Mr. Quiller's closed door, while the young actress whose interview was ended made her way to the main entrance. Her face was veiled and she walked quickly, looking to neither left nor right, her eyes fixed on the floor, as if anxious to avoid observation. As she passed Weston, he happened to look up.

"Hello, Laura!" he exclaimed, as he recognized her. "So it was you in there with old skinflint all that time."

It was Laura Murdock, but what a startling change a few months had wrought! Who could have recognized in this pale, attenuated-looking young person, whose old-fashioned clothes, and out-of-style hat, suggested poverty's grim clutch, the famous beauty, whose jewelry and gowns used to be the envy of every woman in New York? Where the pace is so swift, those who do not keep up with the procession soon drop far behind. The girl had had a hard time of it since she bade John Madison good-bye in Colorado. He had resigned his newspaper position and had gone with a companion to search for gold. He travelled East with her as far as Chicago, where they said farewell.

"You'll be true, little one," he cried, as he clasped her in his strong arms.

"Until death, John!" she said through her tears.

They promised to write at least once a week and tell each other everything. The time would soon pass, and when he came back they would get married. And so they parted, he to Nevada; she back to New York, once more to take up her work—not her old life.

Faithful to her solemn promise, she gave up her fine apartment, and took less expensive rooms. She dressed more modestly, eschewed taxicabs, after-theatre suppers, and other unnecessary luxuries and shunned her old associates. Little champagne suppers, and the small hours, knew her no more. She was sincere in her determination to break off with that kind of life forever. Henceforth she would live within such income as she could legitimately earn on the stage.

But she soon found that it was more difficult than she supposed. Managers' offices did not seem so easy of access as before. The success of her stock engagement at Denver had not impressed the New York managers so favorably as she expected it would. When she called and stated she was at liberty, they were evasive and non-committal; the next time she called they were out. It was the same everywhere. No one seemed to want her at any price. She did not realize that at no time had the stage been clamoring for her services. She saw only that there was a conspiracy of silence and indifference around her now.

If she were willing to go on living as before, and use the influence of such men as Willard Brockton, she could have all the parts she wanted to play, but that was a price she would pay no longer. The weeks went by, and no money coming in, it was not long before her slender earnings were depleted. For a time she managed to keep the wolf from the door by selling some of her old finery, dainty creations in point lace and chiffons, which she would never wear again, but when these were gone, blank destitution stared her in the face. A brief engagement she was lucky enough to secure after unheard-of exertions, helped matters for a while, but the show came to grief, and then things were as bad as ever. Visits to the pawnshop became frequent and soon she was compelled to give up her rooms and seek still cheaper quarters. But in all her troubles, she never lost courage. Sleeping and waking, the searching, questioning eyes of John Madison were continually before her. At all times she could hear him saying: "You'll be true, little one!" And it strengthened her resolve to battle bravely on, until he came to claim her for his bride.

"I didn't see you, Jim," said Laura, sinking wearily into a chair near him. "Well, what luck to-day?"

He shook his head.

"Bad—bad. Guess you don't want to hear."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Where have you been?"

She listened with sympathetic interest, as he told her of the day's useless trampings. When he had finished, he looked inquiringly at her. Abruptly he asked:

"And you—got anything yet?"

She shook her head despondently.

"No, Jim, not yet."

He made a gesture towards the private office, which she had just vacated.

"You were in there such a long time, I made sure there was something doing."

Laura shrugged her shoulders impatiently:

"Quiller sent for me, and I hurried here thinking it was serious. Then he had the nerve to say he'd guarantee me an engagement, if I could put up five hundred dollars. I could not help laughing. 'Where would I get five hundred dollars?' I said. 'You know that better than I,' he replied. 'Surely you've plenty of admirers who'd be willing to put the money up for you.' What do you think of his impudence? I felt like slapping his face."

The advance man gave a dry chuckle.

"Up to the old game," he said. "Do you think these people live on the petty commissions we pay 'em? Not on your life! They gets just such gals as you to find an angel willing to put up the 'dough'. That's why there are so many near-actresses on the stage. It isn't talent they want nowadays, it's money." Changing the subject, he went on: "By the way, I met an old chum of yours just now. She asked after you——"

"An old chum?" echoed Laura, puzzled.

"Yes—Elfie St. Clair."

The girl's pale face reddened slightly. Involuntarily her manner stiffened. Indifferently she said:

"I haven't seen her for months. What did she say?"

"She seemed to know things weren't quite right with you. She's a bad lot, that girl, but she has a good heart. She asked where you lived."

"You didn't tell her, I hope," exclaimed Laura hurriedly.

"Yes, I did," answered the advance man doggedly. "Why shouldn't I?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "She's the last woman in the world I want to see. I never want to see her again. If she calls I won't see her." Glancing at the clock, she added: "I must be going. What are you doing here?"

Weston smiled grimly.

"Wasting time, I guess. Quiller said there might be something to-day. He's said the same every day for three months past."

"Well, I must go," she said. "Good-bye, I'll probably see you at the house."

"Yes," he nodded. "Maybe there'll be some good news to tell you, but I doubt it."

The girl disappeared and Jim resumed his seat, patiently awaiting his turn to see Mr. Quiller.



CHAPTER X.

Mrs. Farley's establishment was situated on Forty ——th Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, a neighborhood at one time much in vogue, but now given up almost entirely to boarding-houses of the cheaper kind. Old-fashioned brownstone residences, with high ceilings, cracked walls, dirty, paper-patched windows, and narrow little gardens choked up with weeds, they were as unattractive-looking from without as they were gloomy and destitute of comfort within. Yet poverty-stricken as were the surroundings, the street itself was respectable enough. As in the case of a homely woman, its very ugliness served to keep its morals above reproach. Vice required more alluring quarters than these for profitable pursuit of its red-light trade. If, therefore, a woman stood in need of a certificate of character, all that was necessary was to say that she lived there.

The back room, which, for nearly six long, weary weeks Laura had occupied on the second floor was characteristic of the place and the class of lodgers who lived there. For years the house had been falling into general decay, with no attempt at repairs. The ceilings were cracked; the wall-paper was old and spotted, and in places hung down brazenly in loose flaps. The cheap carpet was worn threadbare, with here and there large rents, which acted as so many dangerous pitfalls for the unwary. The furniture, of the cheapest possible description, comprised a large, old-fashioned wardrobe, for the most part full of rubbish, a dresser scattered with a few cheap toilet articles, a broken-down washstand and a three-quarter old wooden bed, which, placed against the wall right in the center of the room, monopolized most of the little space there was. At the foot of the bed, a small table, covered with a soiled and ink-stained cloth, was heaped with newspapers and magazines; on the right, facing the door, leading to the hall outside, an old-style mantelpiece surmounted a rusty fireplace. A single arm gas jet served for illuminating purposes, and in a little alcove stood a table with a small gas stove connected by rubber tubing with a gas fixture. There were two windows in the room, opening outward in the French manner on to a dilapidated balcony which overlooked the street below.

This was the wretched place for which Laura had given up all her former ease and magnificence—her $8,000 apartment, her crystal bathtub, her French maid, her automobile, and every other conceivable luxury. The descent from affluence to actual want had been gradual, but none the less swift and sure. It had cost her many a bitter pang, many an hour of keen humiliation, but she had made the sacrifice willingly, cheerfully, feeling in her heart that he would wish it and commend her for it. In all her troubles, John was never for a moment out of her thoughts. Everywhere about the room were reminders of the man who any day might return to claim her for his wife. On the dresser stood a small photograph of him in a cheap frame; tacked over the head of the bed was a larger portrait. A small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top covered the tack, and underneath was a bunch of violets, now withered, but a silent and touching tribute to the absent one.

The room showed every evidence of being occupied, and at a glance it was easy to guess the vocation and also the sex of the tenant. In the wardrobe hung a few old dresses, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, while in an open drawer at the bottom could be seen several old pairs of women's shoes. On an armchair was thrown a cheap kimona. The dresser, in keeping with the general meanness, was adorned with pictorial postcards stuck in between the mirror and the frame, and on it were all the accessories necessary to the actress—powder box and puff, a rouge box and a rabbit's paw, a hand mirror, a small alcohol curling-iron heater, and a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in color, and nearly empty. On the mantelpiece were arranged photographs of actors and actresses and pieces of cheap bric-a-brac. Conspicuous in a corner was a huge theatrical trunk, plastered with the labels of hotels and theatres. Had the lid been raised, a caller might have seen in the tray, among the remnants of a once elaborate wardrobe, one little token that told at once the whole miserable story—a bundle of pawntickets!

Another week had gone by, and Laura's situation, instead of improving, grew steadily more precarious. An engagement seemed farther away than ever; it was impossible to secure one of any kind. One disappointment followed another. Either the companies were all full, or the part offered was not in her line. Managers consciencelessly broke their promises; Mr. Quiller and the other dramatic agents were blandly indifferent. Meantime no money was coming in, and the girl was completely at the end of her resources. Her clothes were now little better than rags; very soon she would not be able to go out at all, let alone make the round of the managers' offices. She owed three weeks rent to her landlady, a matter-of-fact, hard-as-nails type of woman, who was not to be put off much longer with mere promises. Unless she could settle soon, Mrs. Farley would tell her to get out, and then where could she go?

Perhaps for the first time in her life Laura realized now how utterly alone she was in the world. Never had it seemed to her so big, so indifferent, so heartless. Her parents were dead, and as far as she knew she had no relatives. Friends—so-called friends—were at best only fair weather acquaintances. There was not one from whom she would accept assistance. One man would help her, a man to whose generosity she could appeal with the certainty of instant response—Willard Brockton. But she would die sooner. She would not confess defeat. The one being who really cared for her and to whom she could properly appeal was thousands of miles away, in complete ignorance of her plight. She could telegraph him for money, but he might not understand, and she was too proud to lay her actions open to misconstruction. No, she must have patience and wait. If she had to go out scrubbing she would hold out until John Madison came back for her. But it was a bitter experience for a girl who had grown accustomed to every luxury, and, at times, her fortitude and patience were tried to the utmost. The constant humiliation, to say nothing of the mental and physical suffering, was sometimes more than she could bear, and there were many nights when she sobbed herself to sleep. Even her good looks suffered. Constant anxiety made her thin; sleepless nights drove the color from her cheeks and put dark circles round her eyes. She did not have even enough to eat. Forced to economize, she went without regular meals, satisfying her hunger cravings with what little she could cook herself in her own comfortless room.

But in these dark hours, there was one ray of light, and that was her serene faith in her absent lover. She was convinced now that her attachment for the journalist was no passing fancy, no mere caprice of the moment. For the first time in her life, she felt the uplifting, exalted emotion of a pure love, and it seemed to burn in her bosom like a cleansing touch, wiping out the stain in her past. With all her experiences, tragic and otherwise, Laura Murdock had found nothing equal to this sudden, swiftly increasing love for the young Westerner.

That he would come back for her sooner or later, she never for a moment doubted. Of his perfect loyalty, she was convinced. He was her one thought, night and day, and there was no keener pleasure in this, her new life, than in maintaining their constant correspondence. Not a day passed that did not carry a letter Westwards; each morning the postman brought a letter from Madison, full of what he was doing, setting enthusiastically forth his plans for the future. These letters, which were her most treasured possessions, she kept in a big, cardboard box under the bed. By actual count, there were 125 letters and 80 telegrams, tied in eight separate bundles with dainty blue ribbon. On days when she was particularly depressed and discouraged, she felt comforted if she could drag out the letter-box and reread the messages from the loved one.

This is what she was doing one afternoon about a week after her fruitless visit to Mr. Quiller's office. The weather being stormy, she could not go out, so, after lunching abundantly on a glass of milk and a few dry crackers, she once more dragged the box from under the bed. Selecting a bundle of letters, she climbed on the bed, and, squatting down, her feet crossed in Oriental fashion, proceeded to enjoy them. Every now and then she would glance up from the sheet of closely written paper, and take a long, loving look at the large portrait of her sweetheart over the bed.

While thus busily engaged, there suddenly came a knock at the door. Quickly Laura jumped from the bed, replaced the letters in the box, which she slid back in its place, and called out:

"Come in."

Cautiously the door was opened a few inches, and a chocolate-colored negress put her head in. Seeing that Laura was alone, she pushed the door open wider and came in, letter in hand.

"Hello, Annie!" said Laura amiably.

"Heah's yo' mail, Miss Laura," said the slavey, with a significant leer.

"Thank you," said the young actress, taking the proffered missive.

She merely glanced at the familiar, beloved superscription, making no attempt to open the envelope in the presence of the maid. But Annie, the slovenly type of negress one encounters in cheap theatrical boarding-houses, showed no disposition to withdraw. Like most servants, she was inquisitive, and never neglected an opportunity to spy and gossip, considering it a part of her duties to learn everything possible of the private affairs of the lodgers. Quite unlike the traditional, smiling, good-natured "mammy" of the South, she was one of those cunning, crafty, heartless, surly Northern negresses, who, to the number of thousands, seek employment as maids with women of easy morals, and, infesting a certain district of New York where white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, make it one of the most criminal and dangerous sections of the city. Innately and brutally selfish, such women prey on those they profess to serve, and are honest and faithful only so long as it serves their purpose.

Annie kept one eye on the letter, while she pretended to tidy things about the room. Presently she said:

"One like dat comes every mornin', don't it? Used to all be postmahked Denver. Must 'a' moved."

As she spoke, she tried to get a glimpse of the letter over Laura's shoulder, but as the actress turned, she quickly looked away, and added:

"Where is dat place called Goldfield, Miss Laura?"

"In Nevada."

"In Nevada?" echoed the woman, laying comical stress on the pronunciation.

"Yes—Nevada. What's strange about that?"

Annie drew her jacket closer around her, as if she were chilly. Shaking her head, she said:

"Must be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. De pos'man brings it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn. Today he was late. But it comes, every day, don't it?"

"I know," said Laura, with a faint smile.

She disliked the negress, but reasons of policy prompted her always to appear cordial. Annie began brushing the armchair vigorously, and, as she worked, tried once more to see the postmark on the letter. Finally she said:

"Guess mus' be from yo' husban', ain't it?"

Laura shook her head.

"No, I haven't any."

The negress whisked her feather duster triumphantly.

"Dat's what Ah tole Mis' Farley when she was down talkin' about yo' dis mornin'. She said if he was yo' husban' he might do somethin' to help yo' out. Ah tole her Ah didn't think yo' had any husban'. Den she says yo' ought to have one, yo're so pretty."

Laura laughed.

"Don't be so foolish, Annie."

Noticing that she had left the room door ajar, the negress went and banged it shut. Then, proceeding to hang a clean towel on the washstand, she continued gossiping:

"Der ain't a decent door in dis old house. Mis' Farley said yo' might have mos' any man yo' wanted just for de askin', but Ah said yuh was too particular about the man yo'd want. Den she did a heap o' talkin'."

"About what?" demanded Laura quickly.

She was amused as well as annoyed at the woman's impudence, but it was just as well to know what was being said about her downstairs. Pretending, therefore, to be interested, and curbing her impatience, she placed the still unopened letter on the table, and, going to her trunk, took from it a thimble and thread. Closing down the lid again, she sat on the trunk and began to sew a rip in her skirt. Annie, meantime, had begun to fuss at making the bed.



"Well, yo' know," went on the maid, "Mis' Farley she's been havin' so much trouble wid her roomers. Yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo' front, she lef. She's gwine wid some troupe on the road. She owed her room for three weeks, and jus' had to leave her trunk. My! how Mis' Farley did scold her. Mis' Farley let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but, somehow, Ah guess she couldn't——"

She was carrying the pillows round the table, when suddenly she stopped talking and stooped to inspect the letter, which was still lying there. Laura happened to look up. Indignantly, she exclaimed:

"Annie!"

The negress looked confused, but was not otherwise abashed. Going on with her work, she continued coolly:

"—For if she could, she wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, Miss Laura?"

"No, I suppose not," replied the actress guardedly. After a pause, she asked: "What did Mrs. Farley say about me?"

The negress picked up the kimona from the chair and carried it to the wardrobe. With some hesitation, she said:

"Oh, nothin' much."

She needed encouragement, and Laura gave it to her.

"Well, what?"

Thus coaxed, Annie went on:

"She kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' bein' three weeks behind in yo' room rent, an' she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed her somethin', seem' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when yuh come here."

"Who, for instance?"

"Ah don't know. Mis' Farley said some of 'em might slip yo' enough jest to help yuh out." Stopping in her work, she looked curiously at the actress. "Ain't yo' got nobody to take care of yo' at all, Miss Laura?"

Laura shook her head despondently. Sadly, she replied:

"No! No one."

"Dat's too bad."

"Why?"

The negress grinned. Significantly, she said:

"Mis' Farley says yuh wouldn't have no trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to."

Laura averted her head. A chill ran through her. Only too well she knew what the girl meant. She wished she would stop gossiping and go. With some display of irritation, she said:

"Don't talk that way, Annie—please."

But the negress was not to be put off so easily. In her coarse, brutal way, she felt sorry for the pretty young lady, and aware that in some quarters good looks are negotiable, she felt chagrined that such valuable assets should not be realized upon. Playing nervously with a corner of the table-cloth, she continued: