"Dere's a gemman dat calls on one of de ladies from de Circus, in de big front room downstairs. He's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout yo'."

"Oh, shut up!" cried Laura, thoroughly exasperated.

The doors of the wardrobe, being loose on their hinges, kept swinging open, and the negress several times had impatiently slammed them shut. Turning to Laura, she went on:

"Mis' Farley says——"

The doors came open again, and hit her in the back. This time the maid lost her temper completely. Giving them a vicious push, she exclaimed:

"Damn dat door!"

Then going to the washstand, and grabbing a basin which was half-full of water, she emptied it into the waste jar. Now thoroughly angry, she went on sourly:

"Mis' Farley says if she don't get some one in the house dat has reg'lar money soon, she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house."

A look of distress and annoyance crossed Laura's face. It was hard to hear this from a menial.

"I'm sorry," she said; "I'll try again to-day."

Rising from the trunk, she crossed the room, and, taking a desk-pad from the mantel-piece, returned and took a seat at the table.

"Ain't yo' got any job at all?" demanded Annie, who was watching her as closely as she dared.

"No."

"When yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty good to me. You know Mr. Weston?"

"Jim Weston?"

"Yassum, Mr. Weston, what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. Dey're so many actors and actresses out o' work. Mis' Farley says she don't know how she's goin' to live. She said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, Miss Laura?"

The girl shook her head mournfully.

"No. It's all gone."

The negress threw up her hands and from sheer excitement sat plump down on the bed.

"Mah sakes!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "All dem rings and things? You ain't done sold them?"

"They're pawned," said Laura sadly. "What did Mrs. Farley say she was going to do?"

"Guess maybe Ah'd better not tell."

"Please do."

"Yuh been so good to me, Miss Laura. Never was nobody in dis house what give me so much, and Ah ain't been gettin' much lately. And when Mis' Farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask yuh for your room, Ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs and cried. Besides, Mis' Farley don't like me very well since you've been havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here."

"Why not?"

Taking the kimona off the chair-back,' Laura went to the dresser, and, putting the kimona in the drawer, took out her purse, an action not unobserved by the stealthy African, who at once grew correspondingly more amiable and communicative.

"She has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs, and she says, 'Where yuh goin' wid all dose things, Annie?' Ah said, 'Ah'm just goin' up to Miss Laura's room with dat knife and fo'k.' Ah said, 'Ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, Mis' Farley, she jest wants to look at them, Ah guess.' She said, 'She wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em, Ah guess.' Ah got real mad, and Ah told her if she'd give me mah pay Ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what Ah'd do, Ah'd brush right out o' here."

She shook out the towel violently, as if to emphasize her indignation. Laura could not restrain a smile.

"I'm sorry, Annie, if I've caused you any trouble. Never mind, I'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day, anyway."

Fumbling in her purse, she took out a quarter, and turned to the servant:

"Here!"

"No, ma'am; Ah don' want dat," said Annie, making a show of reluctance.

"Please take it," insisted Laura.

"No, ma'am; Ah don' want it. You need dat. Dat's breakfast money for yuh, Miss Laura."

"Please take it, Annie. I might just as well get rid of this as anything else."

Rather reluctantly, the negress took the money. With a grin, she said:

"Yuh always was so good, Miss Laura. Sho' yuh don' want dis?"

"Sure."

"Sho' yo' goin' to get plenty mo'?"

"Sure."

Suddenly a shrill, feminine voice was heard downstairs, calling loudly:

"Annie! Annie!"

The negress hastily went to the door and opened it.

"Dat's Mis' Farley!" she said in an undertone. Answering in the same key, she shouted: "Yassum, Mis' Farley."

"Is Miss Murdock up there?" cried the same voice.

"Yassum, Mis' Farley; yassum!"

"Anything doin'?"

"Huh?"

"Anything doin'?"

The negress hesitated, and looked at Laura.

"Ah—Ah—hain't asked, Missy Farley."

"Then do it," said the voice determinedly.

Laura advanced to the rescue.

"I'll answer her," she said. Putting her head out of the door, she cried:

"What is it, Mrs. Farley?"

The irate landlady's voice underwent a quick change. In a softened voice, she called up:

"Did ye have any luck this morning, dearie?"

"No; but I promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow."

"Sure? Are you certain?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, I must say these people expect me to keep——"

There was an exclamation of skeptical impatience, and the door below slammed with a bang. Laura quietly closed her door, through which Mrs. Farley's angry mutterings could still be heard indistinctly. Laura sighed, and, walking to the table, sat down again. Annie looked at her a moment, and then slowly opened the door.

"Yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' I can do fo' yuh, Miss Laura?"

"Nothing," said Laura wearily.

The negress reluctantly turned to go. Her work now finished, there was no further excuse for remaining. Slowly she left the room, carrying her broom and dustpan with her.



CHAPTER XI.

Immediately the maid had disappeared, Laura sprang to her feet and picked up John's letter. It was only with the greatest difficulty that she had managed to curb her impatience. Eagerly she tore open the envelope.

The letter consisted, as usual, of several pages closely written. Things were pretty much the same, he said. It was a wonderful country, vast and unconquered, a land where man was constantly at war with the forces of Nature. Extraordinary finds were being made every day; one literally picked up gold nuggets by the handful. If he and his partner were only reasonably lucky, there was no reason why they should not become enormously rich. He hoped his little girl was happy and prosperous. He was sure she was true. Each night when he went to sleep in his tent, he placed two things under his pillow, things that had become necessary to his salvation—a Colt revolver and her sweet photograph. He quite understood that it was difficult to secure good engagements, especially since Brockton's backing was withdrawn, but he advised her to take heart and accept anything she could get—for the present. It would not be for long. When he came back, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, she would not have to worry about theatre managers any more.

She read the letter through hurriedly, re-read it, and then, pressing the missive to her lips, laid it down on the table.

"Accept anything!" she murmured. "Ah, he does not understand. How should he? If only there was something to accept!" Rising wearily, she sighed: "Hope, just nothing but hope."

Her mouth quivered, and her bosom, agitated by the emotion she was trying hard to suppress, rose and fell convulsively. He did not understand. How was it possible for her to wait? She had already waited until everything was gone—her rings, her watch and chain, even the clothes on her back. She was absolutely penniless; unless relief came soon she would be turned into the streets. Oh, why could he not have guessed the truth from her letters, and come back to her?

Going to the bed, she fell face down upon it, burying her face in her hands. A convulsive sobbing shook her entire being. It was too hard to bear. She had tried to be brave, but her heart was breaking. Ah, if John only knew! What did she care for riches? If only he would come to comfort her and give her courage.

For fifteen minutes she lay there, motionless, a pathetic figure of utter despondency. The minutes might have lengthened into hours, when suddenly a hurdy-gurdy in the street below started to play a popular air. Often the most trivial and commonplace incident will change the entire current of our thoughts. It was so in this instance. The cheap music had the effect of instantly galvanizing the young actress into life. It suddenly occurred to her that she was ravenously hungry. She rose from the bed, went to the wardrobe and took out a box of crackers. Then opening the window, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy, she got a bottle of milk that was standing on the sill outside and placed it on the table. Next she went to the washstand and rinsed out a tumbler. While thus engaged, there came a timid knock at the door. Startled, not knowing who it could be, unwilling that strangers should detect the traces of tears, she went quickly to the dresser and powdered her nose. The knocking was repeated.

"Come in!" she called out, without turning round.

The door opened and Jim Weston appeared. He halted on the threshold, holding the knob in his hand.

"May I come in?"

"Hello, Jim! Of course you may. I'm awfully glad you came. I was feeling horribly blue. Any luck?"

The advance agent came in, closing the door carefully behind him.

"Lots of it," he grinned.

"That's good," exclaimed Laura, who was still at the mirror arranging her hair. "Tell me."

"It's bad luck—as usual. I kind o' felt around up at Burgess's office. I thought I might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. Somehow those fellows always do business to-morrow."

Laura closed the window, shutting out the sound of the street music, which now could be heard only faintly. Grimly, she said:

"Yes, and there's always to-day to look after." Going up to him, she said kindly: "I know just how you feel. Sit down, Jim."

He took a seat near the table, and accepted a dry cracker which she offered him. As he munched it, Laura went on:

"It's pretty tough for me, but it must be a whole lot worse for you, with a wife and kids."

The agent made a wry face.

"Oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along—turn his hand to anything. But a woman——"

"Worse, you think?"

He eyed her a moment without replying. Then he said:

"I was just thinking about you and what Burgess said."

"What was that?" asked the girl indifferently, as she sipped her milk.

The agent cleared his throat. With an air of some importance, he said:

"You know Burgess and I used to be in the circus business together. He took care of the grafters when I was boss canvas man. I never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money they had and then taking part of it. He used to run the privilege car, you know."

Laura looked puzzled.

"Privilege car?" she echoed.

"Yes," he went on, "had charge of all the pick-pockets—dips we called 'em—sure-thing gamblers and the like. Made him rich. I kept sort o' on the level and I'm broke. Guess it don't pay to be honest——"

Laura gave him a quick look. In a significant tone of voice, she said:

"You don't really think that?"

The man shook his head dubiously.

"No, maybe not. Ever since I married the missis and the first kid come we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and earned. But when you can't get hold of that, it's tough."

The girl nodded, and, averting her head, looked out of the window.

"I know," she said simply.

The agent was in a loquacious mood this afternoon, and needed little encouragement to do all the talking. He went on:

"Burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he turned. He's happy and prosperous, but I guess he ain't any better now than he ought to be."

"I guess he isn't," rejoined Laura quickly. "I know I've been trying to induce him to give me an engagement, but for some reason I get no satisfaction. There are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that I could do. He has never said absolutely 'no'; but, somehow, he's never said 'yes'."

"That's odd," said her visitor, scratching his head, as if puzzled. "He spoke about you to-day."

"In what way?" demanded the girl.

"I gave him my address, and he saw it was yours, too. He asked if I lived in the same place."

"Was that all?"

"He wanted to know how you was getting on. I let him know you needed work, but I didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. He said something about you being a damned fool."

Laura looked up in surprise.

"How?" she demanded.

Weston twirled his hat round nervously, and remained silent.

"How?" she demanded again.

Thus encouraged, he proceeded:

"Well, Johnny Ensworth—you know he used to do the fights on the Evening Screamer; now he's press agent for Burgess; nice fellow and way on the inside—and he told me where you were in wrong."

"What have I done?" she asked, taking a seat in the armchair.

"Burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical comedies—he just trails. Of course, he's got a lot of influence, and he's always Johnny-on-the-Spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. There are four or five rich men in town who are there with the bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew ring at eleven-thirty every night."

"And he thinks I am too particular?" interrupted Laura dryly.

"That's what was slipped me. Seems that one of the richest men who is in on Mr. Burgess's address book is that fellow Brockton. You're an old friend of his. He's got more money than he knows what to do with. He likes to play show business. And he thought that if you——"

Rising quickly, the girl went to the wardrobe, and, taking out her hat, picked up a pair of scissors, and proceeded to curl the feathers. The hat was already in so deplorable a condition that this belated home treatment was not likely to help it, but the diversion served its purpose, which was to distract the agent's attention away from her face.

"I didn't mean no offence," said Jim apologetically. "I thought it was just as well to tell you where he and Burgess stand. They're pals."

Laura jumped up, and, putting the hat and scissors down on the bed, went close up to her visitor. Confronting him, she said with angry emphasis:

"I don't want you to talk about him or any of them. I just want you to know that I'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season without any more trouble. I've pawned everything I've got; I've cut every friend I knew. But where am I going to end? That's what I want to know—where am I going to end?" Sitting down on the bed, she went on: "Every place I look for a position something interferes. It's almost as if I were blacklisted. I know I could get jobs all right, if I wanted to pay the price, but I won't. I just want to tell you, I won't. No!"

Nervous and restless, she again rose, and, going to the fireplace, rested her elbow on the mantel. The advance agent coughed and nodded his head approvingly.

"That's the way to talk," he said. "I don't know you very well, but I've watched you close. I'm just a common, ordinary showman, who never had much money, and I'm going out o' date. I've spent most of my time with nigger minstrel shows and circuses, but I've been on the square. That's why I'm broke." Rather sadly he added: "Once I thought the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she couldn't do that, she's grown so deuced fat." Rising and going up to Laura, he said: "Just you don't mind. It'll all come out right."

"It's an awful tough game, isn't it?" she said, averting her face.

She wiped away the tears that were silently coursing down her wan cheeks. Then, going to the table, she took up the glass, poured the unused milk back in the bottle, and replaced the biscuits in the wardrobe.

"Tough!" exclaimed the agent. "It's hell forty ways from the Jack. It's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. I ain't blaming the women. They say 'self-preservation is the first law of nature,' and I guess that's right; but sometimes when the show is over and I see them fellows with their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a holder long enough to reach from here to Harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, I feel as if I'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town."

"Jim!" protested Laura.

"Yes, I do," he insisted hotly; "you bet!"

"That wouldn't pay, would it?"

"No; they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in Sing Sing, and I'm too poor to go to Matteawan. But all them fellows under nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or any one else."

"Perhaps all of them are not so bad," said Laura meditatively.

"Yes, they are," he insisted angrily; "angels and all. Last season I had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. We lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in Texas. I telegraphed: 'Must have a thousand, or can't move.' He just answered: 'Don't move.' We didn't."

"But that was business."

"Bad business," he nodded. "It took a year for some of them folks to get back to Broadway. Some of the girls never did, and I guess never will."

"Maybe they're better off, Jim."

"Couldn't be worse. They're still in Texas. Wish I knew how to do something else—being a plumber or a walking delegate—they always have jobs."

"I wish I could do something else, too, but I can't. We've got to make the best of it."

Weston rose and took his hat.

"I guess so. Well, I'll see you this evening. I hope you'll have good news by that time." He started to open the door, and then came back a step, and in a voice meant to be kindly, he said: "If you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some other woman in the house, maybe I can get a couple of tickets for one of the shows. I know a lot of fellows who are working."

The girl smiled sadly; tears filled her eyes.

"No, thanks, Jim; I haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and I don't——"

He understood. His face broadened into a sympathetic smile, and, putting his arm affectionately round her waist, as a father might with his daughter, he said kindly:

"Now, you just cheer up! Something's sure to turn up. It always has for me, and I'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. There's always a break in hard luck some time——"

Laura dried her eyes, and tried to force a smile.

"I hope so," she said. "But things are looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they?"

"Never mind," he said, as he went toward the door. "I'll go and give Mrs. F. a line o' talk and try to square you for a couple of days more, anyway. But I guess she's laying pretty close to the cushion herself, poor woman."

"Annie says a lot of people owe her."

"Well, you can't pay what you haven't got. And even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. I'm off. Maybe to-day is lucky day. So long!"

"Good-by," smiled Laura.

"Keep your nerve," he said, as he closed the door behind him.



CHAPTER XII.

"Keep your nerve!"

The words rang mockingly in the girl's ear long after the good-natured advance agent had made his departure. Keep her nerve? That was precisely what she was trying to do, and it was proving almost beyond her strength. Why had John left her to make this fight alone? He must have known, even better than she, herself, what a terrific, heart-breaking struggle it would be. Or did he wish to put her to the test, to find out if her professed determination to live a new and cleaner life was genuine and sincere. If that was his motive, surely she had been tried enough. Then, as she gave herself up to reflection, doubts began to creep in, doubts of herself, doubts of him. If he really loved her, truly and unselfishly, would he let her suffer in this way, would he have so completely deserted her? It did not once occur to her that John, being thousands of miles away, could not possibly realize her present plight. A sudden feeling of rebellion came over her. She began to nourish resentment that he should show such little concern, that he should have taken no steps to keep informed of her circumstances.

For a long-time she sat in moody silence, engrossed in deep thought, listening only abstractedly to the street sounds without. Presently her glance, wandering aimlessly around the room, fell on the letter she had just received from Goldfield. She picked it up, as if about to read it; then, as if in anger, she threw it impatiently from her. Leaning forward on the table, her face buried in her two hands, she broke down completely:

"I can't stand it—I just simply can't stand it," she moaned to herself.

A sudden knock on the door caused her to sit up with a jump. Rising, confused, as if surprised in some guilty action, she called out:

"What is it?"

"A lady to see you!" cried Annie's shrill voice on the other side of the door.

Laura went to open.

"To see me?" she exclaimed in unaffected surprise.

"It's me—Elfie," called out a familiar voice below. "May I come up?"

Laura started. Her face turned red and white in turns. Elfie St. Clair! Should she see her, or say she was out? Yet, why shouldn't she see her? She needed some one like Elfie to cheer her up. Drying her eyes, she quickly pulled herself together, and hastened to the top of the stairs. Her voice, trembling with suppressed excitement, almost unable to control the agitation that suddenly seized upon her, she cried out:

"Is that you, Elfie?"

"Yes, shall I come up?"

"Why, of course—of course!"

Panting and flushed from the extraordinary exertion of climbing two flights of stairs, Elfie at last appeared, gorgeously gowned in the extreme style affected by ladies who contract alliances with wealthy gentlemen without the formality of going through a marriage ceremony. Her dress, of the latest fashion and the richest material, with dangling gold handbag and chatelaine, contrasted strangely with Laura's shabbiness and the general dinginess of Mrs. Farley's boarding-house. But the two girls were too glad to see each other to care about anything else. With little cries of delight, they fell into each other's arms.

"Laura, you old dear!" exclaimed the newcomer in her customary explosive and vivacious manner. "I've just found out where you've been hiding, and came around to see you."

"That's awfully good of you, Elfie. You're looking bully. How are you, dear?"

"Fine."

"Come in, and sit down. I haven't much to offer, but——"

Laura was visibly embarrassed. Even her forced gayety and attempt at cordiality did not quite conceal her nervousness. It was the first time that Elfie had seen her living in such surroundings, and, in spite of her efforts to remain cool and self-possessed, her cheeks burned with humiliation.

"Oh, never mind," said Elfie quickly. Her first glance had told her how matters stood, but she made no comment. Good-naturedly, she rattled on: It's such a grand day outside, and I've come around in my car to take you out. You know, I've got a new one, and it can go some.

"I am sorry, but I can't go out this afternoon, Elfie."

"What's the matter?"

"You see, I'm staying home a good deal nowadays. I haven't been feeling very well, and I don't go out much."

"I should think not. I haven't seen even a glimpse of you anywhere since you returned from Denver. I caught sight of you one day on Broadway, but couldn't get you—you dived into some office or other."

Rising from her chair, for the first time she surveyed the room critically. Unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out explosively:

"Gee! Whatever made you come into a dump like this? It's the limit!"

Laura smiled uneasily. Going to the table, she said awkwardly:

"Oh, I know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and, after all—a home's a home."

Elfie shrugged her shoulders.

"Looks more like a prison." Finding on the mantel a bit of stale candy, she popped it into her mouth from sheer force of habit. But it was no sooner in than, with an expression of disgust, she spat it out on the floor. Scornfully, she added: "Makes me think of the old days, the dairy kitchen and a hall bedroom,"

Laura sighed.

"It's comfortable," she said wearily.

"Not!" retorted Elfie saucily. Sitting on the bed, she jumped on the mattress as if trying it: "Say, is this here for effect, or do you sleep on it?"

"I sleep on it," said Laura quietly.

"No wonder you look tired," laughed her caller. "Say, listen, dearie, what else is the matter with you, anyway?"

Laura looked up at her companion in pretended surprise.

"Matter?" she echoed. "Why, nothing."

"Oh, yes, there is," insisted Elfie, shaking her head sagaciously. "What's happened between you and Brockton?" Noticing the faded flowers in the vase on the table, she took them out, and after tossing them into the fireplace, refilled the vase with the fresh gardenias which she was wearing. Meantime, she did not stop chattering. "He's not broke, because I saw him the other day."

"You saw him? Where?"

"In the park. He asked me out to luncheon, but I couldn't go. You know, dearie, I've got to be so careful. Jerry's so awful jealous—the old fool."

Laura had to smile in spite of herself.

"Do you see much of Jerry nowadays?"

"Not any more than I can help and be nice," chuckled Elfie. "He gets on my nerves. Of course, I have heard about your quitting Brockton."

"Then why do you ask?" demanded Laura.

"Just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble was. Now, tell me all about it. Can I smoke here?"

Pulling her gold cigarette-case up with her chatelaine, she opened it, and selected a cigarette.

"Certainly," said Laura, getting the matches from the bureau and putting them on the table.

"Have one?" said her companion.

"No, thank you," said Laura, sitting down so that she faced her companion.

"H'm-m, h'm-m, hah!" sputtered Elfie, lighting her cigarette. "Now, go ahead. Tell me all the scandal. I'm just crazy to know."

"There's nothing to tell," said Laura wearily. "I haven't been able to find work, that is all, and I'm short of money. You can't live in hotels, you know, and have cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working."

"Yes, you can," retorted her visitor. "I haven't worked in a year."

"But you don't understand, dear. I—I—well, you know, I—well, you know—I can't say what I want."

"Oh, yes, you can. You can say anything to me—everybody else does. We've been pals. I know you got along a little faster in the business than I did. The chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. But we got our living just the same way. I didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that."

"I know there wasn't then, Elfie; but I tell you I'm different now. I don't want to do that sort of thing, and I've been very unlucky. This has been a terribly hard season for me. I simply haven't been able to get an engagement."

"Well, you can't get on this way," said Elfie. She paused a moment, knocking the ashes off her cigarette to cover her hesitation, and then went on: "Won't Brockton help you out?"

Laura rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace. With some display of impatience, she exclaimed:

"What's the use of talking to you, Elfie? You don't understand."

Her legs crossed in masculine style, and puffing the cigarette deliberately, Elfie looked at her friend quizzingly:

"No?" she said mockingly. "Why don't I understand?"

"Because you can't," cried Laura hotly; "you've never felt as I have."

"How do you know?" demanded the other, with an elevation of her eyebrows.

Laura made a gesture of impatience.

"Oh, what's the use of explaining?" she cried.

Her visitor looked at her for a moment without making reply. Then, with the serious, reproachful manner of a mother reproving a wayward child, she said:

"You know, Laura, I'm not much on giving advice, but you make me sick. I thought you'd grown wise. A young girl just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be onto the game, and make the best of it."

Laura was fast losing her temper. Her eyes flashed, and her hands worked nervously. Angrily, she exclaimed:

"If you came up here, Elfie, to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. Out West this summer, I met some one, a real man, who did me a lot of good. You know him. You introduced him to me that night at the restaurant. Well, we met again in Denver. I learned to love him. He opened my eyes to a different way of going along. He's a man who—oh, well, what's the use! You don't know—you don't know."

She tossed her head disdainfully as if the matter was not worthy of further discussion, and sank down on the bed. Elfie, who had listened attentively, removed the cigarette from her mouth, and threw it into the fireplace. Scornfully, she said:

"I don't know, don't I? I don't know, I suppose, then, when I came to this town from up-State—a little burg named Oswego—and joined a chorus, that I didn't fall in love with just such a man. I suppose I don't know that then I was the best-looking girl in New York, and everybody talked about me? I suppose I don't know that there were men, all ages, and with all kinds of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper? And I didn't do it, did I? For three years I stuck by this good man, who was to lead me in a good way, toward a good life. And all the time I was getting older, never quite so pretty one day as I had been the day before. I never knew then what it was to be tinkered with by hairdressers and manicures, or a hundred and one of those other people who make you look good. I didn't have to have them then." Rising, she went up to the table and faced her companion. "Well, you know, Laura, what happened."

"Wasn't it partly your fault, Elfie?"

Her friend leaned across the table, her face flushed with anger.

"Was it my fault that time made me older and I took on a lot of flesh? Was it my fault that the work and the life took out the color, and left the make-up? Was it my fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as I'd come, and were chased after, just as I was? Was it my fault the cabs weren't waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty I was? And was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat——" Bringing her hand down on the table with a bang, she added: "Cold flat—and I'd been on the dead level with him." With almost a sob, she went up to the bureau, powdered her nose, and returned to the table. "It almost broke my heart. Then I made up my mind to get even and get all I could out of the game. Jerry came along. He was a has-been, and I was on the road to be. He wanted to be good to me, and I let him. That's all!"

"Still, I don't see how you can live that way," said Laura, lying back on the bed.

"Well, you did," retorted Elfie, "and you didn't kick."

"Yes," rejoined Laura calmly, "but things are different with me now. You'd be the same way if you were in my place."

"No," laughed Elfie mockingly, "I've had all the romance I want, and I'll stake you to all your love affairs. I am out to gather in as much coin as I can in my own way, so when the old rainy day comes along I'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella."

Laura started angrily to her feet. Hotly she cried:

"What did you come here for? Why can't you leave me alone when I'm trying to get along?"

"Because I want to help you," retorted Elfie calmly.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, almost hysterical, Laura tossed aside the quilt and sank down in a heap on the bed.

"You can't help me!" she sobbed. "I'm all right—I tell you I am." Peevishly she demanded: "What do you care, anyway?"

Elfie rose, and going over to the bed, sat down and took her old chum's hand. Quietly she said:

"But I do care. I know how you feel with an old cat for a landlady, and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap burlesque people." Laura snatched her hand away, and going up to the window, turned her back. It was a direct snub, but Elfie did not care. Unabashed, she went on: "Why, the room's cold, and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look shabby. You haven't got a job—chances are you won't have one." Pointing contemptuously to the picture of John Madison over the bed, she went on: "What does that fellow do for you? Send you long letters of condolences? That's what I used to get. When I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat he told me how much he loved me; so I had the other ones re-soled and turned the old petticoat. And look at you—you're beginning to show it." Surveying her friend's face more closely, she went on: "I do believe there are lines coming in your face, and you hide in the house because you've nothing to wear."

Jumping off the bed, Laura went quickly to the dresser, and picking up the hand mirror, looked carefully at herself. Then laying the glass down, she turned and faced the other. Sharply she retorted:

"But I've got what you haven't got. I may have to hide my clothes, but I don't have to hide my face. And you with that man—he's old enough to be your father—a toddling dote, hanging on your apron strings. I don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman!"

It was Elfie's turn now to lose her temper. She rose, flushed with anger.

"You don't, eh?" she cried hotly. "But you did once, and I never caught you hanging your head. You say he's old. I know he's old, but he's good to me. He's making what's left of my life pleasant. You think I like him. I don't—sometimes I hate him—but he understands; and you can bet your life his cheque is in my mail every Saturday night, or there's a new lock on the door Sunday morning."

"How dare you say such things to me?" exclaimed Laura indignantly.

"Because I want you to be square with yourself. You've lost all that precious virtue women gab about. When you've got the name, I say get the game."

Almost speechless from anger, Laura pointed to the door.

"You can go now, Elfie, and don't come back!"

"All right," exclaimed Elfie, gathering up her muff and gloves, "if that's the way you want it to be, I'm sorry."

She was hurrying toward the door, when suddenly there came a knock. Laura, with an effort, controlled herself.

"Come in," she called out.

Annie entered, with a note, which she handed to Laura.

"Mis' Farley sent dis, Miss Laura."

Laura read the note. A look of mingled annoyance and embarrassment came into her face.

"There's no answer," she said sharply, crushing the note up in her hand.

But Annie was not to be put off.

"She tol' me not to leave until Ah got an answah."

"You must ask her to wait," retorted Laura doggedly.

"She wants an answer," persisted the negress.

"Tell her I'll be right down—that it will be all right."

"But, Miss Laura, she tol' me to get an answah."

She went out reluctantly, closing the door.

"She's taking advantage of your being here," exclaimed Laura apologetically, half to herself and half to her visitor.

"How?" demanded Elfie.

"She wants money—three weeks' room-rent. I presume she thought you'd give it to me."

"Huh!" exclaimed the other, tossing her head.

Changing her tone, Laura went up to her.

"Elfie," she said, "I've been a little cross; I didn't mean it."

"Well?" demanded her companion.

"Could—could you lend me thirty-five dollars until I get to work?"

"Me?" demanded her visitor, in indignant astonishment.

"You actually have the face to ask me to lend you thirty-five dollars?"

"Yes, you've got plenty of money to spare."

"Well, you certainly have got a nerve!" exclaimed Elfie.

"You might give it to me," pleaded Laura. "I haven't a dollar in the world, and you pretend to be such a friend to me!"

Elfie turned angrily.

"So that's the kind of a woman you are, eh? A moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because I wasn't decent enough to associate with you. You know how I live. You know how I get my money—the same way you got most of yours. And now that you've got this spasm of goodness, I'm not fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. You'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. I've got your number now, Laura. Where in hell is your virtue, anyway? You can go to the devil, rich, poor, or any other way. I'm off!"

She rushed toward the door. For a moment Laura stood speechless; then, with a loud cry, she broke down and burst into hysterics:

"Elfie! Elfie! Don't go now! Don't leave me now! Don't go!" Her visitor stood hesitating, with one hand on the doorknob. Laura went on: "I can't stand it. I can't be alone. Don't go, please, don't go!"

She fell into her friend's arms, sobbing. On the instant Elfie's hardness of demeanor changed. With all her coarseness, she was a good-natured woman at heart. Melting into the tenderest womanly sympathy, she tried her best to express herself in her crude way. Leading the weeping girl to the armchair, she made her sit down. Then, seating herself on the arm, she put her arm round her old chum and hugged her to her breast.

"There, old girl," she said soothingly, "don't cry, don't cry. You just sit down here and let me put my arms around you. I'm awful sorry—on the level, I am. I shouldn't have said it, I know that. But I've got feelings, too, even if folks don't give me credit for it."

Laura looked up through her tears.

"I know, Elfie, I've gone through about all I can stand."

Her friend smoothed her by stroking her hair.

"Well, I should say you have—and more than I would. Anyway, a good cry never hurts any woman. I have one myself sometimes, under cover."

As Laura recovered control of herself, she grew meditative. Musingly she said:

"Perhaps what you said was true."

"We won't talk about it—there!" said Elfie, drying her friend's eyes and kissing her.

"But perhaps it was true," persisted Laura, "and then——"

"And then——"

"I think I've stood this just as long; as I can. Every day is a living horror——"

Elfie nodded acquiescence. Glancing round the room, she exclaimed, with a comical grimace of disgust:

"It's the limit!"

"I've got to have money to pay the rent," continued Laura anxiously. "I've pawned everything I have, except the clothes on my back——"

Elfie threw her arms consolingly round her friend.

"I'll give you all the money you need, dearie. Great heavens, don't worry about that! Don't you care if I got sore and—lost my head."

Laura shook her head.

"No, I can't let you do that. You may have been mad—awfully mad—but what you said was the truth. I can't take your money."

"Oh, forget that!" laughed Elfie.

Laura put up a hand to cool her burning forehead. Looking out of the window, she said wistfully:

"Maybe—maybe if he knew all about it—the suffering—he wouldn't blame me."

"Who?" cried Elfie sarcastically. "The good man who wanted to lead you to the good life without even a bread-basket for an advance agent? Huh!"

"He doesn't know how desperately poor I am," explained Laura half-apologetically.

"He knows you're out of work, don't he?"

"Not exactly. I told him it was difficult to find an engagement, but he has no idea that things are as they are."

"Then you're a chump!" declared Elfie, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders. "Hasn't he sent you anything?"

"He hasn't anything to send."

Elfie bounded with indignant surprise.

"What? Then what does he think you're going to live on—asphalt croquettes with conversation sauce?"

Sinking down on a chair, Laura gave way again.

"I don't know—I don't know!" she cried, sobbing.

Elfie went over to her friend and placed her arms about her.

"Don't be foolish, dearie. You know there is somebody waiting for you—somebody who'll be good to you and get you out of this mess."

Laura looked up quickly.

"You mean Will Brockton?" she said, fixing her companion with a steady stare.

"Yes."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"You won't get sore again if I tell you, will you?"

Laura rose.

"No—why?" she said.

"He's downstairs—waiting in the car. I promised to tell him what you said."

"Then it was all planned, and—and——"

"Now, dearie, I knew you were up against it, and I wanted to bring you two together. He's got half of the Burgess shows, and if you'll only see him, everything will be fixed."

"When does he want to see me?"

"Now."

"Here?"

"Yes. Shall I tell him to come up?"

Motionless as a statue, Laura made no sign. Her face pale as death, her hands clasped in front of her, she stood as if transfixed, staring out of the window.

"Shall I tell him to come up?" repeated Elfie impatiently.

Still no answer for a long moment that seemed like an hour. Then all at once, with a quick, convulsive movement, as if by a determined effort she had succeeded in conquering her own will, she turned and cried, with a half sob:

"Yes—yes—tell him to come up!"

Elfie sprang joyously forward. Her arguments had not been in vain, after all. Kissing her friend's cold cheeks, she exclaimed:

"Now you're a sensible dear. I'll bet he's half-frozen down there. I'll send him up at once."

Anxious to get Brockton there before the girl had a chance to change her mind, she was hurrying toward the door, when she happened to notice Laura's red eyes and tear-stained face. That would never do. Coming back, she exclaimed:

"Look at you, Laura! You're a perfect sight!"

Throwing her gloves and muff onto a chair, she led the girl to the washstand, and taking a towel, wiped her eyes and face.

"It'll never do to have him see you looking like this!" she said. "Now, Laura, I want you to promise me you won't do any more crying. Come over here and let me powder your nose——"

Incapable of further resistance, feeling herself a helpless victim in the hands of irrevocable Fate, Laura followed docilely to the dresser, where Elfie took the powder-puff and powdered her face. This done, she daubed her cheeks with the rouge-paw and pencilled her lips and eyebrows. As she worked, she rattled on:

"Now, when he comes up, you tell him he has got to blow us all off to a swell dinner to-night—seven-thirty. Let me look at you——"

Laura put up her face like an obedient child. Elfie kissed her.

"Now you're all right," she said cheerfully. "Make it strong, now—seven-thirty, don't forget. I'll be there. So-long."

Going to the armchair and gathering up the muff and gloves she had thrown there, Elfie left the room.



CHAPTER XIII.

For a minute or two Laura remained motionless. Sinking inertly onto a chair after the door closed, she sat still, engrossed in deep thought.

This, then, was the end of her good resolutions and her hopes of regeneration! What would he say? Would he care and grieve after her, or would he treat it as a jest, an idle romance with which they had amused themselves those happy midsummer days in Denver? Yes—it was a dream—nothing more. Life was too hard, too brutal for such ideal longings to be possible of realization. It was just as well that she had come to her senses before it was too late.

Rising with a sigh, she crossed to the other side of the room, and halting at the wardrobe, stood contemplating John's portrait which was tacked up there. Then calmly, deliberately, she loosened the nails with a pair of scissors and took the picture down. Proceeding to the dresser, she picked up the small picture in the frame; then, kneeling on the mattress, she pulled down the large picture of him that was over the bed, and placed all three portraits under a pillow. Barely was this done, when there was a sharp rap at the door.

"Come in," she called out.

The door opened, and Brockton entered, well groomed and immaculately dressed. For a moment he stood irresolute on the threshold, just looking at her. There was obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. Laura went toward him, with hand extended.

"Hello, Laura," he said pleasantly.

"I'm—I'm glad to see you, Will."

"Thank you."

"Won't you sit down?" she said timidly.

"Thank you again," he smiled.

Quickly regaining his ease of manner, he put his hat and cane on the table, took off his overcoat, which he placed on the back of the armchair, and sat down.

"It's rather cold, isn't it?" said Laura, taking a seat opposite him.

"Just a bit sharp."

"You came with Elfie in the car?"

"She picked me up on Broadway; we lunched together."

"By appointment?" she asked quickly.

"I'd asked her," he answered dryly.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Well, Laura," he replied calmly.

"She told you?"

He shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"Not a great deal. What do you want to tell me?"

Avoiding his direct glance, she said very simply:

"Will, I'm ready to come back."

With an effort, the broker concealed his sense of triumph and satisfaction. Rising quickly, he went up to her. Taking her hand, he said tenderly:

"I'm mighty glad of that, Laura. I've missed you like the very devil."

Visibly embarrassed, she asked timidly:

"Do we—do we have to talk it over much?"

"Not at all unless you want to. I understand—in fact, I always have."

"Yes," she said wearily, "I guess you always did. I didn't."

"It will be just the same as it was before, you know."

"Yes—of course——"

"I didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone the way I have you. I've been lonely."

She smiled faintly:

"It's nice in you to say that."

Drawing back a few steps he cast a hurried glance around the room.

"You'll have to move out of here right away. This place is enough to give one the colly-wabbles. If you'll be ready to-morrow, I'll send my man over to help you take care of the luggage."

"To-morrow will be all right, thank you," she replied.

He put his hand in his pocket and took out a big roll of money. Peeling off five yellow-backed bills and placing them on the table, he said:

"And you'll need some money in the meantime. I'll leave this here."

"You seem to have come prepared," she smiled. "Did Elfie and you plan all this out?"

He chuckled as he replied:

"Not planned—just hoped. I think you'd better go to some nice hotel now. Later we can arrange."

She offered no objection, accepting everything suggested as a matter of course. Having sold herself, as it were, to the highest bidder, it was not her place to raise any further obstacles. Dispassionately, therefore, she said:

"Will, we'll always be frank. I said I was ready to go. It's up to you—when and where."

He smiled, surprised to find her so tractable.

"The hotel scheme is the best, but, Laura——"

"Yes?"

He looked at her keenly, trying to penetrate beneath the surface of her almost unnatural calm. He did not wish to be fooled again.

"You're quite sure this is in earnest?" he demanded. "You don't want to change? You've time enough now."

She shook her head.

"I've made up my mind. It's final," she said positively.

"If you want to work," he went on, "Burgess has a nice part for you. I'll telephone and arrange if you say so."

"Please do. Say I'll see him in the morning."

The broker rose and paced nervously up and down the room. So far so good, but he had not yet finished. There was still something unpleasant that must be attended to before all was settled, and now was the proper and only time to do it. Turning abruptly, he said:

"Laura, you remember when we were in Denver——"

Starting forward, the girl raised one hand entreatingly. For the moment her studied quiet was laid aside.

"Please, please don't speak of that!" she cried.

Brockton stood still, looking her squarely in the eyes. His manner was extremely serious and determined.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I've got to." Slowly and deliberately he went on: "Last summer, in Denver, I told John Madison that if this time ever came—when you would return to me of your own free will—I'd have you write him the truth. Before we go any further, I'd like you to do that—now."

Even under her cosmetics, the girl grew a shade paler. In a trembling, uncertain voice, she faltered:

"Say good-by?"

"Just that," said Brockton firmly.

She looked distressed. The muscles about the corners of her mouth worked convulsively.

"I wouldn't know how to begin. It will hurt him terribly."

"It will be worse if you don't," insisted the broker. "He'll like you the better for telling him. It would be honest, and that is what he expects."

She knew he was right, and that there was no way out of it, yet this was the hardest ordeal of all. In her heart she knew she was lying—lying to Brockton, lying to John, lying to herself. But she must lie, for she had not the strength to resist. The world was too hard, the suffering too great. What could she tell John—that she had ceased to love him and gone back to her old life? How he would despise her! Yet it must be——. Her eyes blinded with scalding tears, she asked:

"Must I write—now?"

"I think you should," he replied kindly but firmly.

Dropping onto a seat near the table, she took up a pen.

"How shall I begin?" she asked tremulously.

He looked at her in surprise.

"Do you mean that you don't know what to say?"

She nodded and turned away her head, not daring to let him see her white, tear-stained face. He made a step forward.

"Then I'll dictate a letter," he said.

"That's right," she half-sobbed. "I'll do just as you say. You're the one to tell me now——"

"Address it the way you want to," he said. "I'm going to be pretty brutal. In the long run, I think that is best, don't you?"

"It's up to you," she said quietly.

"Ready?"

"Begin."

Looking-over her shoulder, while she put pen to paper, he began to dictate:

"This is the last letter you will ever receive from me. All is over between us. I need not enter into explanations. I have tried and I have failed. Do not think badly of me. It was beyond my strength. Good-by. I shall not tell you where I've gone, but remind you of what Brockton told you the last time he saw you. He is here now, dictating this letter. What I am doing is voluntary—my own suggestion. Don't grieve. Be happy and successful. I do not love you——"

When she came to the last sentence, she stopped, laid her pen down, and looked up at the broker.

"Will—please—" she protested.

But he insisted.

"It has got to go just that way," he said determinedly. "'I do not love you.' Sign it 'Laura.' Fold it, put it in an envelope—seal it—address it. Shall I mail it?"

She hesitated, and then stammered:

"No. If you don't mind, I'd sooner mail it myself. It's a sort of a last—last message, you know. I'd like to send it myself."

Brockton went to the armchair, took his coat, and put it on.

"All right," he said cheerily. "You're a little upset now, and I'm going. We are all to dine together to-night at seven-thirty. There'll be a party. Of course you'll come."

"I don't think I can," she answered, with some embarrassment. "You see——"

He understood. Nodding and pointing to the money he had left on the table, he said:

"I know. I guess there's enough there for your immediate needs. Later you can straighten things up. Shall I send the car?"

"Yes, please."

He drew nearer and bent over her, as if about to caress her. Instinctively she shrank from his embrace. What at any other time would have appeared perfectly natural was now repugnant to her. It seemed indecent when the ink on her letter to John Madison was not yet dry.

"Please don't," she said. "Remember, we don't dine until seven-thirty."

"All right," he laughed, as he took his hat and cane and went out of the door.

For a few minutes after his departure Laura sat in meditative silence. There was no drawing back now. She had accepted this man's money. She must go on to the end, no matter where it led her. She had sold herself; henceforth she was this man's slave and chattel. Suddenly she was seized with a feeling of disgust. She loathed herself for her weakness, her lack of stamina, her cowardice. She did not deserve that a decent man should love or respect her. Angry at herself, angry with the world, she rose, and going to the dresser, got the alcohol lamp and placed it on the table. While she was lighting it there came a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called out.

Annie entered.

"Is that you, Annie?"

"Yassum," said the negress.

Laura took the bank notes which Brockton had left and threw them on the table. With affected carelessness, she said:

"Mrs. Farley wants her rent. There is some money. Take it to her."

Approaching the table, the negress' eyes nearly started out of her head when she caught sight of the bank notes. Bewildered, she exclaimed:

"Dey ain't nothin' heah, Miss Laura, but five great big one hundred dollah bills!"

"Take two," said Laura. "And look in that upper drawer. You'll find some pawn-tickets there."

"Yassum," said the negress, obeying instructions. "Dat's real money—dem's yellow backs, sure!"

"Take the two top ones," continued Laura, "and go get my lace gown and one of the hats. The ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars. Keep ten for yourself, and hurry."

Annie gasped from sheer excitement.

"Ten for myself?" she grinned. "I never seen so much money. Yassum, Miss Laura, yassum." As she went toward the door she turned round, and said: "Ah'm so mighty glad yo' out all yo' trouble, Miss Laura. I says to Mis' Farley, now——"

Laura cut her off short.

"Don't—don't!" she exclaimed sharply. "Go do as I tell you, and mind your business."

Annie turned sullenly and walked toward the door. At that moment Laura noticed the letter which still lay on the table. She called the maid back:

"Wait a minute. I want you to mail a letter."

Picking up the letter, she held it out to the negress, who put out her hand to receive it. Laura still hesitated. Looking at the envelope long and wistfully, her nerve failed her. Dismissing the girl with a gesture, she said:

"Never mind. I'll mail it myself."

The negress went out. When the door shut behind her, Laura went quickly to the table and held the letter over the flame of the alcohol lamp. The envelope speedily ignited. As it burned she held it for a moment in her fingers, and when half-consumed, threw it into a waste-jar. Sitting on the side of the bed, she watched the letter burn, and when the last tiny flame flickered out, she sank down on the bed, her head supported on her elbows, her chin resting in her hands, thinking, thinking.



CHAPTER XIV.

Hugging the grateful warmth of an expiring camp fire, the figures of two stalwart men lay stretched out on the hard, frozen ground, bundled up in heavy army blankets. The mercury was forty-five below zero and still falling, but they did not appear to mind. Gaunt and hollow-eyed, enfeebled from long fasting, they had succumbed at last to utter physical exhaustion, and fallen into a sound and merciful sleep.

All Nature slept with them. The distant howling of wolves and the occasional scream of an eagle only served to intensify the universal stillness. The sepulchral silence of the Far North enveloped everything like an invisible mantle. Away to the east, the first gray mists of approaching daylight were creeping over the jagged mountain tops. The cold was intense. The snow was so deep in spots that the entire landscape was obliterated; only the trees, marvellously festooned with lace-like icicles, and a few huge, fire-scarred rocks which here and there thrust their jagged points above the surface, remained of the desolate marsh and forest land. Everywhere, as far as the eye could carry, was a trackless waste of snow drift.

The men lay motionless; only by their deep, rhythmical breathing could one know that they were alive. Dead to the world, they were as insensible to the cutting wind which, with the force of a half-gale, swept over the icy plains, sending the last flickering embers of their fire up in a cloud of flying sparks, as they were to the pain in their fever-racked bodies.

It was lucky they were still able to make a fire. The flames gave them warmth and kept the wolves at bay. But for that and the occasional small game they had been able to shoot, they would have perished long ago, and then the gold-fever would have claimed two victims more. For days and days they had tramped aimlessly through that wild region, prospecting for the yellow metal, until, footsore and weary, nature at last gave way. They had lost their bearings and could go no farther. Miles away from the nearest human habitation, they were face to face with death from starvation. Then the weather changed; it suddenly grew very cold; before they knew it, the blizzard was upon them. The suffering had been terrible, the obstacles inconceivable, yet they never faltered. A goal lay before them, and they pushed right on, determined to attain it. The prospector for gold plays for heavy stakes—a fortune or his life. Never willing to acknowledge defeat, undeterred by continual, heart-breaking disappointment, still he pushes on. Spurred by the irresistible lure of gold, there is no place so dangerous or so difficult of access that he will not penetrate to it. In winter he perishes of cold, in summer he is overcome by the heat, yet no matter. Nothing short of death itself can stop him in his determined, insensate quest for wealth.

It grew gradually lighter. The sky was overcast and threatening. A light snow began to fall. One of the men shivered and opened his eyes. Looking stupidly about him, with a long-drawn-out yawn, first at the dying fire, then at his still unconscious mate, he jumped up with a shout. At first he was too dazed with sleep to stand straight, and his teeth chattered from the cold. He was also ravenously hungry. But first they must think of the fire. That must be kept up at all costs. He was so weak that he staggered, and his clothes hung from him in rags; but shambling over to where his companion lay, he shook him roughly:

"Hello, Jim—hello, there! The d——d fire is almost out. Quick, man!"

Thus unceremoniously aroused from his trance-like slumber, John Madison, or what remained of him, lifted his head and painfully raised himself on one elbow. He was a pitiable-looking object. His hair, all dishevelled and matted, hung down over haggard-looking eyes; his cheeks were hollow from hunger, his ghastly pale face, livid from the cold, was covered with several weeks' growth of beard. From head to foot he was filthy and neglected from lack of the necessaries of life, and there was in his staring eyes a haunted, terrified look—the look of a man who has been face to face with death and yet lived to tell the tale. His remaining rags barely covered his emaciated, trembling frame. Shoes had gone long ago. His bleeding, frost-bitten feet were partly protected with coarse sacking tied with string. No one could have recognized in this human derelict the strapping specimen of proud manhood who six weeks before had said good-by to Laura and started out light-heartedly to conquer the world. Instead, the world had conquered him.

Throwing off the blanket, he staggered to his feet. He felt sick and dizzy. Once he reeled and nearly fell. Twenty hours without food takes the backbone out of any man, and it was as bad as that, with no prospect of anything better. Weakly he stooped, and gathering up a little snow, put it in his mouth. Then his face winced with pain. The hunger pangs were there again. Stamping the ground and exercising his arms vigorously for a few moments, to get his blood in circulation, he turned, and, stooping down again to his couch, drew from under the roll of blanket that had served him for a pillow, a formidable-looking Colt six-shooter and a girl's photograph. The Colt he slipped between his rags; the picture he pressed to his lips.

"God bless you, little one!" he murmured.

His companion, who was busy bending over the fire, trying to coax it back to life, happened to look up.

"Say, young feller!" he bellowed. "Cut out that mush, and lend a hand with this fire. Get some wood, and plenty—quick!"

Madison made no retort. He was too weak to care. Besides, Bill was right. He had no business to think only of himself when they were both making a last stand for life itself. Hastily gathering an armful of small twigs, he threw them on the fire. As he watched the flames leap up, his mate still grumbled:

"This ain't no time for foolin'. I should think yer'd try to get us out of this mess, instead of wastin' time mooning-over that picture."

Madison stooped over the fire and warmed his frozen hands. Shivering, he said:

"Bill—you don't know—how can you know?—what that picture means to me. It's all that's left to me. I never expect to see her again. I guess we'll both leave our carcasses here for the vultures to feed on. I can't go on much longer like this without food or shelter. I'm almost ready to cash in myself."

The other doggedly bit on a piece of ice and said nothing. Madison continued:

"If I gave up three square meals a day and a comfortable bed to come out here and die in this infernal hole, it was only for her sake. We were to get married soon. I promised to go back with a fortune, and she said she'd wait for me——"

The figure crouching on the other side of the fire chuckled grimly:

"Wait for you, eh?" he echoed dubiously.

"Yes, wait for me—why not?" snapped John.

The other shook his head.

"She may and she may not. It depends on the gal. Where is she?"

"New York."

"Working?"

"Yes—in a fashion. She's an actress."

"Oh!"

Bill gave another derisive chuckle. Irritated, John demanded hotly:

"What's the matter?"

"Queer lot—actresses!" grinned Bill. "Never knew no good of 'em."

John's eyes flashed dangerously, and weak though he was, he sprang up and put his hand to his hip. Before he drew his gun, his mate apologized.

"No offense, pard. I didn't mean no harm. I guess if she's your gal, she's all right. No offense."

Madison, mollified, sat down again. Warmly he said:

"Ah, Bill—you don't know—you don't know. She means everything to me. I'd sooner cut my throat than think her false for one instant. Why—she'd wait for me if it took years. I know her; you don't. She's the best girl in the world."

Bill nodded. Sententiously he said:

"That's the right line o' talk, I guess, for a feller wot's in love, but it's not goin' to help us find the trail. We've got to get on and find something to eat. Jist at present, wittles is more to the point than spooning."

Bill Branigan was an original. An Irish-American, he was earning good wages in one of the Chicago stockyards when the gold rush to Alaska began. Attacked like many others with the get-rich-quick fever, he went to the Yukon, and later found his way to Goldfield, Nevada, where he met Madison. The two men were instantly attracted to each other. Superb specimens of hardy manhood, both were ambitious, fearless, thirsty for adventure. Bill proposed a partnership—a risk-all, divide-all agreement. His other scheme having failed, Madison was glad enough to accept the offer. So with renewed hope and determination, both men turned their faces to the setting sun, and wandered across the mountain ranges, looking for gold. A loquacious Indian, after being generously dosed with "firewater," had told them of a lonely unknown place in the wilderness, where the ground was literally strewn with gold. Nuggets as big as a man's fist, he said, could be found by merely scratching the surface of the soil. They swallowed the yarn with the necessary grain of salt; but in the gold region, where so many miracles have happened, nothing is deemed impossible. The wildest romance receives credence. Vast fortunes had been made over night on clues no less preposterous. Anyhow, it was worth investigating. So, quietly, almost stealthily, taking no one into their confidence, they started North.

After days of strenuous tramping and effort, climbing hills, fording streams, cutting through impenetrable brushwood, they finally reached the region of which the Indian had given a fairly accurate description. Nearly two hundred miles from the nearest camp, on the top of a mountain plateau, the country was as wild and desolate as it is possible to imagine. Probably no white man had ever set foot there before. Soon their supplies ran low, and as they advanced further into the wilderness, and game grew scarcer, it became more difficult to find food. In addition to hunger, they suffered severely from the cold, and the jagged rocks tearing their boots made them footsore.

Of gold they had seen a few traces, but the ore was not present in such quantities as to encourage them to believe they had stumbled across another El Dorado, or even to make it worth their while to stake out a claim. Branigan, disappointed, was in favor of going back. The Indian was lying, he said. There was danger of getting lost in the mountains. The severe winter storms were about due. Prudence counselled caution. John took an opposite view. They had picked up several lumps of quartz streaked with yellow. If gold was there in minute particles, he argued, it was there also in larger quantities. The only thing was to have patience, to go on prospecting, and ferret out the hiding-place where jealous Nature secreted her treasures.

So they had struggled on, hoping against hope, thinking they would soon come across a trapper's hut, fighting for mere existence each inch of the way, becoming more bewildered and demoralized as they realized the gravity of their plight, advancing further and further into the merciless desert, literally stumbling into the jaws of death. Then came the snow, and the faint Indian trails were completely obliterated. This put the climax on their misery. Now there was no knowing where they were. Having no compass, they were hopelessly lost. In clear weather it was possible to find the right direction by the stars, but the sky, long-overcast and menacing, vouchsafed no sign. Even if the road could be found, escape was impossible. Starved and footsore, they were now so weak that they were scarcely able to drag themselves along. Yet move they must; to remain in one spot meant to fall down and go to sleep and perish. They had had nothing to eat for days except snow and some roots which Bill dug up from under the snow. Once they were attacked by wolves. Madison shot one of their pursuers with his revolver, and the rest of the pack turned tail and ran. The dead wolf they ate. They did not stop to cook it, but devoured it raw, like famished dogs worrying a bone. It saved their lives for a time, and then the hunger pangs began again, terrible, incessant.

The freshly stacked fire send clouds of smoke skywards, and its crimson glow, casting a vivid light on the two men crouching close by, made their abject figures stand out with startling distinctness against the gray background of the snow-clad landscape. Madison, who had long been silent, staring stolidly into the flames, listening absent-mindedly to his companion's arguments, at last broke in:

"Gold! I'm sick of gold—sick of the very word. I'd give all the gold there is in the world just to see Laura once again. That's all I'd ask—to see her just once. Then I'd be willing to die in peace. She has no idea of this. Do you think they'll ever know? Maybe some one will find our bodies."

Bill made no answer. He was paying no attention. His mind was too weak to grasp what was said. He had only one thought—one fixed thought—and that was—gold. Pointing off in the distance, where a mass of moss-covered rock rose like some gigantic vessel in an ocean of snow, he said in a thick, uncertain voice:

"John, my boy, I had a dream last night. I dreamt I tried some of them high spots yonder. I struck the rock with my pick, and suddenly I was dazzled. Wet flakes of shining gold stared up at me from the quartz. I struck again, and there was more gold. I pulled the moss from it, and everywhere there was gold. I struck right and left, and a perfect shower of nuggets as big as my head rolled at my feet. Then I woke up."

"Yes," said John sarcastically, "then you woke up."

Bill nodded stupidly.

"I know it was only a dream," he said, "but somehow I can't get the gold out of my head. I've a notion to go and try them rocks. You might try in the other direction."

John shrugged his shoulders.

"Won't do any harm as I know of," he said wearily. "Go and try. I'll stay here a while and nurse my frost bites. When I'm rested I'll go and try my luck."

His mate rose, and taking his pick, the weight of which was almost too much for his strength, said cheerily:

"If I find anything, I'll holler," he said.

"I guess you won't holler," replied his comrade, with a wan smile.

When his mate had disappeared, Madison remained sitting by the fire, staring meditatively into its red depths. He was not thinking of gold just then, but of a golden-haired girl who was thousands of miles away, little dreaming of the unexpected fate that had befallen him. He wondered what Laura was doing, if she was happy and successful. She had written in rather discouraging tone, saying it seemed impossible to find the right kind of engagement, but of course that was long ago, at the beginning of the season. Letters took so long to come from New York. By this time she must have found something she liked, and in which she could do herself justice. He did not like to see her on the stage. It was an artificial, unhealthy life. He had intended, when they were married, taking her away from her former surroundings for good. It would not be necessary for her to earn her living. He could have made enough for both.

When they were married! What cruel irony that sounded now. Perhaps she would never hear of his fate. Inquiries would be made at Goldfield and search parties might be sent to scour the brush, but it would be too late. They would find only their dead bodies, picked clean by the birds of prey. How happy he might have been. After all his many years, he at last had found a girl who really cared for him, a girl who was willing to give up everything for his sake, a girl whose firmness of character he could not help but respect.

What had he cared what her past had been? The very fact that she had been willing to abandon her luxurious way of living, and endure comparative poverty for his sake, was proof enough of her sincerity. He had hoped she would not have to make a sacrifice long. One day he thought he would make a lucky "strike" and go back laden with gold, which he would pour into her lap. How delighted and surprised she would have been. He would have given her a fine house, automobiles, beautiful gowns, precious jewels, everything money can buy. Nothing would have been too good to reward her weary months of waiting. And now——

Rising wearily to his feet, he threw some more wood on the fire, and then snatching up a short steel pick, proceeded in the direction opposite to that taken by Branigan. He soon reached the foothills, and began work scraping the moss-covered rocks, striking deep into boulders, turning over the soil, his eye watchful for a glimpse of glittering gold particles.

He toiled for a couple of hours, till his hands were blistered and his muscles ached. There was no sign of his companion. He hollered several times at the top of his voice, but receiving no response, he concluded that Bill, in his prospecting, had wandered farther away than he intended. There was no reason for uneasiness. If he did not return soon, he would go in search of him. As he toiled on mechanically, he pondered:

Even if they were lucky and got out of this plight, it would be years before he was on his feet again. He would not be able to support himself, let alone a wife. It might be months, years before his luck turned again. Would she wait?

Suddenly his brow darkened. He clenched his fist, and the veins on his temple swelled up like whipcord. Had she waited? He remembered Bill's scoffing words. Could it be true of Laura? Was she false to him? The possibility of such a thing had never entered his head before, but now he was tortured with the agonies and doubts of insensate, unreasoning jealousy. Maybe she had found it harder than she anticipated. Compelled to economize, deprived of luxuries that had become necessities, perhaps she had repented her bargain and gone back to that scoundrel Brockton. Possibly at that very moment she was in the broker's arms. The thought was maddening. A cold sweat broke out all over him at the very thought of it What would he do if he found her false? What would he do if he found his happiness destroyed, the future a hopeless blank, his faith in womankind forever shattered. There was only one thing to be done. Stern justice—the swift, savage justice of the cold, desolate, blizzard-swept plains. He would shoot them both, and himself afterward.

He ceased working, the pick fell from his nerveless hands. The hunger pains were gnawing at his vitals. He felt dizzy and sick. A death chill invaded his entire being. It suddenly grew dark; there was a buzzing in his ears. His knees gave way beneath him. He stumbled and fell. He was still conscious, but he knew he was very ill—if only he could call Branigan.

Suddenly his ear caught an unfamiliar sound. Instinctively, ill as he was, he started up. It was the sound of human voices. With difficulty he raised himself on one elbow. A party of hunters and Indians were coming in his direction. Some were carrying a stretcher formed with rifles and the branches of trees.

"Gold! Gold!" they shouted wildly, as they ran toward him.

Half a dozen trappers crowded round John's prostrate form. On the stretcher lay Bill Branigan, asleep. The leader of the party, a big, muscular chap, with a great blond beard, pushed a whiskey flask between Madison's clenched teeth.

"Poor devil!" he exclaimed. "We're just in time. He was about all in." Addressing Madison, who, with eyes starting from his head, stared up at the newcomers with amazement, as if they were phantoms from another world, he said:

"We picked your mate up yonder in the mountains. He's found the biggest gold nugget ever found in this section. There's gold everywhere."

"Damn the gold! Give me some food!" gasped Madison.

Then he fainted.



CHAPTER XV.

The Pomona, on West —— Street, was well known among those swell apartment houses of Manhattan which find it profitable to cater to the liberal-spending demi-monde, and therefore are not prone to be too fastidious regarding the morals of their tenants. Many such hostelries were scattered throughout the theatre district of New York, and as a rule they prospered exceedingly well. Invariably they were of the same type. There was the same monotonous sameness in the gaudy decorations and furnishings; the same hilarious crowd in the cafe downstairs; the same overdressed, over-rouged women in the elevator and halls. They enjoyed in common the same class of patronage—blonde ladies with lengthy visiting-lists of gentlemen callers.

Willard Brockton occupied a suite on the sixth floor, and it was one of the handsomest and most expensive in the hotel. It consisted of ten large rooms and three baths. The large sitting-room in white and gold had two windows overlooking fashionable Fifth Avenue. The furnishings were expensive and rich, but lacked that good taste which would naturally obtain in rooms occupied by people a little more particular concerning their reputation and mode of life. At one end of the room a large archway hung with tapestries led to the sleeping chambers. At the other end a door opened onto a small private hall, which, in turn, had another door communicating with the main corridor. The apartment was expensively and elaborately furnished. The inlaid floors were strewn with handsome Oriental rugs, the chairs and sofas were heavy gilt, upholstered in crimson silk, while here and there were Louis XV writing desks, teakwood curio cabinets, costly bronzes and statuary. The walls were covered with valuable paintings and engravings. Near the window stood a superb full-length Empire cheval glass, the kind that women love to dress by and survey their beauty.

Two months had sped quickly by since that cold, stormy day in February, when Laura, distracted, half-starved, her spirit broken, despairing of aid from Madison or any other decent quarter, threatened with eviction even from Mrs. Farley's miserable lodgings, weakly surrendered, listened to the call which summoned her back to her former life, and once more became Brockton's mistress.

At first the sudden transition from misery and absolute want to all the comforts and extravagant luxuries that unlimited means can command was so gratifying that she saw no reason to repent of the step she had taken. On the contrary, she rejoiced that she was still pretty enough, still young and clever enough to hold a man of Brockton's influence and wealth. Decidedly, she thought to herself, Elfie was right. Virtue was all very well for nice, good girls who did not mind doing chores, practicing painful economy, wearing shabby clothes, and tiring themselves out for small wages in petty, humiliating occupations, but she could never stand it. She would die rather. Life would not be worth living if she were to be always denied the sweets of life, and to her that meant champagne suppers, gorgeous gowns, and all that goes with them. So, banishing from her mind any unpleasant memories or regrets, she plunged headlong into the boiling vortex of gay metropolitan life. Thanks to Brockton, she secured one of the best parts of the expiring theatrical season, and made such a hit that her name was in everybody's mouth. The newspapers interviewed her, society women copied her, toothpaste and perfume manufacturers solicited her testimonials. In a word, she was famous overnight. Burgess, the manager, was now eager to sign for five years, but Laura laughed, and tore up the contract before his face. What did she care now? She had the whip hand. The managers had neglected and despised her long enough; they could do the running after contracts now.

Meantime she drained the cup of pleasure to the very dregs. It was one continual round of gaiety. She seemed insatiable. With Elfie St. Clair and others, she formed an intimate circle of friends, a little coterie of the swiftest men and women in town, and entertained them lavishly, spending wilfully, recklessly. Her extravagances were soon the talk of New York. A thousand dollars for a single midnight supper, $700 for a new gown, $200 for a hat were as nothing. Once more she reigned as the belle of Broadway, Almost each night, after the play, she was the centre of an admiring throng in the pleasure resorts, and none ventured to dispute the claim that she was the prettiest as well as the best-dressed woman in town. Dressmakers, attracted by her matchless figure and eager to profit by her vogue, turned out for her their latest creations; milliners designed for her hats that were the despair of every other woman. She had her carriages, her automobiles, and her saddle horse, her town apartment and her bungalow by the sea, and for a time set a pace so swift that no other woman of her acquaintance could keep up with her. All this cost money, and a lot of it, but Brockton gave her free rein. The broker did not care. He smiled indulgently and footed her enormous bills without protest. On the contrary, he was delighted. Never had she proved so fascinating a companion or attracted so much attention in public. He was getting plenty of other people's money in the Wall Street game, so why should he care if his mistress spent a few thousands a year more or less? It amused him to see her plunging, as he put it. Besides, he was proud of his protegee. It flattered him when they entered a theatre or restaurant, Laura wearing her $200 picture hat, to hear people whisper: "That's Brockton's girl. Isn't she stunning?"

She drank more champagne than was good for her, and when this happened, Brockton himself would chide her. But she only laughed at him, and, disregarding his rebuke, turned to the waiter and imperiously ordered another bottle. Not that she liked the golden, hissing stuff. It made her sick and gave her a bad headache the next morning, but still she must drink it, drink it unceasingly. It was the only way she could deaden that terrible, accusing conscience which persistently demanded an accounting. With her knowledge of her own guilt and her tendency to introspective brooding, it was only natural that her sensitive nature suffered atrociously. All day and all night her conscience tortured her. Incessantly it put the agonizing question: Have you been true, true to yourself and to the man to whom you gave your word? And always came the damning answer: "No—I've been false, miserably false, both to myself and him."

In her quieter moods—the moods she dreaded most—she allowed her mind to dwell on the past. She wondered what John was doing and where he was. Had he succeeded or had he failed? For a long time she had received no word. On leaving Mrs. Farley's, she had left no address and had taken no pains to have her mail forwarded. No doubt his letters had been returned to him. Sometimes she regretted having burned the message of farewell which Brockton had dictated. It would have been fairer, more honest, to have told him the truth frankly. Brockton had wanted to do the right thing, and she had lied, making him believe she had done it.

That was why she despised herself, and that was why she drank champagne—so she might forget. Sometimes she took too much. One night Elfie St. Clair celebrated her birthday by giving a supper in her apartment. It was a jolly gathering, and they made merry until the late hours of the morning. Laura had been particularly high spirited and hilarious until, toward the end, her face grew deathly white. Seized with a sudden dizziness, she had to be wrapped in furs and carried down to her carriage. Brockton, embarrassed, declared it to be due to the heat. Everybody present knew it was the champagne.

But gaiety that is forced and only artificially stimulated cannot be kept up long. One day the reaction inevitably comes, and then the awakening is terrible, disastrous. At times, when, in company of others, she was laughing loudly and appearing to be thoroughly enjoying herself, she would suddenly become serious, talk no more, and go away in the corner by herself. Her companions teased her about it, and called such symptoms "Laura's tantrums." The truth was that each day the girl realized more the hollowness and rottenness of the life she was leading. She was filled with repulsion and disgust, both for herself and her associates. While she was weak and luxury-loving, she was not entirely devoid of character. There was enough sentimentality and emotion in her moral fibre to make her see the impossibility of continuing to live this irregular, vicious kind of existence. Women of Elfie St. Clair's type could do it, because they had no innate refinement of feeling, but she could not, and, in her saner moments, when she thought of what she had lost, when she remembered how she had been regenerated, purified, by her disinterested love for a good man, she looked wistfully back on those weeks at Mrs. Farley's boarding-house. Her attic, miserable as it was, was a haven of happiness and respectability compared with her present degradation.

Then, again, she had an uncomfortable idea that there was an accounting still to be made. In her sleep she saw John Madison approaching, stern, terrible, exacting some awful penalty, like an implacable judge. She had a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but nevertheless palpable, that something was going to happen. The idea obsessed her, haunted her; she could not shake it off. She became nervous of her own shadow. Gradually, too, she grew to dislike Brockton. Instead of feeling gratitude for all the luxuries he gave her, she blamed him for having made her what she was. She classed him as the type of man who preys on woman's virtue and exults in the number of souls he is able to destroy. She looked upon him as responsible for all her troubles, for her degradation and sacrifice of her womanhood. He was the eternal enemy of her sex, the arch tempter, the anti-christ. Her mind became obsessed with this idea, and a savage, unreasoning hate for him and all his kind sprang up in her heart.

Meantime, things pursued the even tenor of their way, at least outwardly. Brockton was careless, indifferent, good natured as usual. Laura was seemingly as gay and carefree as ever. None saw the ripples on the apparently serene surface, except, perhaps, one pair of black eyes which, always spying, never missed anything. Annie guessed her mistress' thoughts, but was shrewd enough to hold her tongue. The negress, promoted from the rank of maid of all work at Mrs. Farley's establishment, had been elevated to the dignity of lady's maid. Laura never liked the negress, but well aware of the difficulty she might have in finding a servant, she accepted her voluntary offer to follow when she went with Brockton. The woman knew her ways, and in some respects was a good servant—at least as faithful and honest as any she could expect to get, which was not, of course, saying a great deal. But smart as she was, the negress never quite succeeded in deceiving her young mistress. Laura never trusted her further than she could see her. A hundred times, her patience tried to the limit, she had discharged her.

"You'll go in the morning, Annie."

"Yassum!"

But somehow Annie always stayed.



CHAPTER XVI.

Late one morning Laura and Brockton were seated at the little table in the parlor, having breakfast together. They had been out the night before, at a big supper given by some friends, and had only got home in the small hours. Laura, attired in an expensive negligee gown, sat at one side of the table, pouring out the coffee; Brockton, in a gray business suit, sat opposite, carelessly scanning the Wall Street Messenger. Neither spoke and both looked tired and out of sorts. Brockton was as fond of champagne suppers as anyone, but he was not getting any younger. They did not agree with his constitution as they used to, with the result that he was generally out of humor the next day.

While he and his companion toyed listlessly with the silver-plated dishes in front of them, Annie busied herself about the room, trying to put it in order. Everything lay about just as it had been thrown the night before. The place looked as if a cyclone had devastated a second-hand clothing store. In the alcove a man's dress coat and vest were thrown carelessly on the cushions; a silk hat, badly rumpled, was near it. An opera cloak had been flung on the sofa, and on a chair was a huge picture hat with costly feathers. A pair of women's gloves were thrown over the cheval glass. The curtains in the bay window were half-drawn, filling the room with a rather dim light. Laura preferred it so. She did not wish Brockton to see the ravages which late hours and overabundance of rich foods were making on her complexion. She still had some feminine vanity left.

With a grunt and gesture of annoyance, Brockton threw his paper aside. Looking around, he demanded impatiently:

"Have you seen the Recorder, Laura?"

His companion was engrossed in the theatrical gossip of the Morning Chronicle. Without looking up, she replied indifferently:

"No."

"Where is it?" he growled.

"I don't know," she answered calmly, still intent on her own paper.

Brockton began to lose his temper, as he did easily when not feeling just right. Not daring to vent his ill humor on his vis a vis, he looked around for the colored maid. Loudly he called:

"Annie——! Annie——!! Annie!!!" In a savage undertone, half directed at Laura, he growled: "Where the devil is that lazy nigger?"

Laura looked up, a mild expression of indignant surprise on her face. Quietly she said:

"I suppose she's gone to get her breakfast."

"Well, she ought to be here," he snapped.

"Did it ever occur to you," said Laura quickly, "that she has got to eat, just the same as you have?"

"She's your servant, isn't she?" he barked.

"My maid," she corrected, with difficulty controlling herself.

"Well, what have you got her for—to eat, or to wait on you?" Again he thundered: "Annie!"

"Don't be so cross," protested Laura. "What do you want?"

"I want the paper," he growled, pouring out one half-glass of water from a bottle.

"I will get it for you," she said, with quiet dignity.

Wearily she got up and went to the table where there were other morning papers. Taking the Recorder, she handed it to him, and, returning to her seat, reopened the Chronicle. He relapsed into a sulky silence, and for a few minutes there was peace. Suddenly Annie entered the room from the sleeping apartments.

"Do yuh want me, suh?" she asked, with the ludicrous grin characteristic of her race.

"Yes!" snapped the broker. "I did want you, but don't now. When I'm at home I have a man to look after me, and I get what I want——"

Laura looked up angrily. Her patience was exhausted.

"For Heaven's sake, Will, have a little patience!" she said. "If you like your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody——"

"Don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here for. Annie, this room's stuffy."

"Yassuh."

"Draw those portieres. Let those curtains up. Let's have a little light. Take away those clothes and hide them. Don't you know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning anything to remind him of the night before? Make the place look a little respectable."

Annie stood in considerable awe of Brockton. In fact, she was afraid of him, so she did not stand on the order of going. She scurried around, and after picking up the coat and vest, opera cloak and other things, threw them over her arm without any idea of order.

"Be careful!" angrily shouted the irate broker, who was watching her. "You're not taking the wash off the line."

"Yassuh!"

The negress literally flew out of the room. Laura put down her newspaper.

"I must say you're rather amiable this morning," she said pointedly.

Brockton turned his head away.

"I feel like h—ll," he growled.

"Market unsatisfactory?" she inquired.

"No, head too big." Lighting a cigar, he took a puff and then made a wry face. Putting the offending weed into the empty cup, he said, with another grimace: "Tastes like punk."

"You drank a lot," she said unconcernedly.

He nodded.

"Yes—we'll have to cut out these parties. I can't do those things any more. I'm not as young as I was, and in the morning it makes me sick." Looking up at her, he added. "How do you feel?"

She rose from the breakfast table and sat down at a small escritoire.

"A little tired, that's all," she said languidly.

"You didn't touch anything, did you?"

"No."

"That's right—you've been taking too much lately. It was a great old party, though, wasn't it?"

Laura yawned and gazed listlessly out of the window.

"Do you think so?"

Not noticing her expression of wearied disgust, he went on:

"Yes, for that sort of a blow-out. Not too rough, but just a little easy. I like them at night, but I hate them in the morning. Were you bored?"

Picking up his newspaper, he started to glance over it carelessly. Still staring idly into the street, she answered laconically:

"I'm always bored by such things as that."

"You don't have to go."

"You asked me."

"Still, you could say no."

Rising, she stooped and picked up a newspaper which had fallen on the floor. Placing it on the breakfast table, she returned to her seat at the desk.

"But you asked me," she insisted.

"What did you go for if you didn't want to?"

"You wanted me to."

"I don't quite get you," he said impatiently.

"Well, it's just this, Will—you have all my time when I'm not in the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. You pay for it. I'm working for you."

He looked up at her quickly. Something in the tone of her voice warned him that there was a scene coming, and he hated scenes. But he could not resist inquiring sarcastically:

"Is that all I've got—just your time?"

"That and—the rest," she replied bitterly.

Looking at her curiously, he said:

"Down in the mouth, eh? I'm sorry."

"No," she retorted, her mouth quivering at the corners; "only, if you want me to be frank, I'm a little tired. You may not believe it, but I work awfully hard over at the theatre. Burgess will tell you that. I know I'm not so very good as an actress, but I try to be. I'd like to succeed myself. They're very patient with me. Of course, they've got to be—that's another thing you're paying for; but I don't seem to get along except this way."

Brockton shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Oh, don't get sentimental," he said testily. "If you're going to bring up that sort of talk, Laura, do it some time when I haven't got a hang-over, and then, don't forget, talk never does count for much."

Rising and going to the mirror, Laura picked up a hat from a box, put it on, and looked at herself in the mirror. She turned around and looked at her companion steadfastly for a moment without speaking. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth there and then, tell him she had lied about mailing the letter to Madison, and that she had been miserable ever since; tell him that this rotten, artificial life disgusted and degraded her, that she was sick of it and of him. But she had not the courage.