THE STAGE DOOR
 
 'When he talked of my art he really seemed inspired."
 
 THE 
 
 STAGE DOOR 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES BELMONT DAVIS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1908
 
 Copyright, 1908, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 Published, May. 1908
 
 ftf 
 MY MOTHER
 
 AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 Of the ten stories included in this volume, " Everyman's 
 Riddle " originally appeared in Scribner's Magazine ; 
 "Sedgwick" and "The Flawless Emerald" in Collier's; 
 "'Beauty' Kerrigan" in the American Magazine; "A 
 Modern Cleopatra" in Munsey's, and the remainder in 
 the Associated Sunday Magazines. For permission to 
 use the stories in their present form I am indebted to the 
 editors of these several periodicals. 
 
 C. B. D.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Everyman's Riddle 3 
 
 "Beauty" Kerrigan 39 
 
 Coccaro the Clown 81 
 
 "Sedgwick" 111 
 
 A Modern Cleopatra 147 
 
 The Cross Roads, New York 173 
 
 The Kidnappers 199 
 
 The Flawless Emerald 237 
 
 CarmichaeVs Christmas Spirit 299 
 
 The Road to Glory 329
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "When he talked of my art he really 
 
 seemed inspired" Frontispiece 
 
 Facing 
 page 
 
 "I should say I did know Hugh Musgrove" 22 
 " You told me what I wished most to know " 30 
 
 "It was two seasons ago, when I was singing 
 
 at Monte Carlo'' 130 
 
 Morgenstern lay there among the broken glass- 
 ware 140 
 
 The Cross Roads, New York 173 
 
 The actress at last made her appearance 252 
 
 "I put my money on the black" 280
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 ClURS was the second train to arrive after the ac- 
 cident, and while the towering mass of wreckage had 
 remained untouched, most of the human suffering 
 had been fairly well put under cover. The killed 
 had either been carried into the section house or 
 covered with blankets, and the doctors who had ar- 
 rived a short time before us were looking after the 
 more seriously injured in one of the coaches of their 
 special. 
 
 It was about five o'clock when our train slowed 
 up and the brakeman ran down the aisle of the 
 smoking-car and with his big fist broke in the 
 glass door of the tool-case. Naturally when he 
 jumped off the platform we followed him, and away 
 ahead of us we could see the two engines smashed 
 and bent, but erect and holding each other up like 
 two great, brutal, fighting animals standing on their 
 
 3
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 hind legs, too tired to strike out and finish the battle. 
 The day coaches and the sleeping-cars were piled 
 about like a lot of children's blocks in a nursery. It 
 was early in June, and the sky was quite cloudless 
 and a deep blue, and the turf was a marshy green and 
 yielding; the air was full of the smell of wild flowers 
 and little birds were hopping about and chirping all 
 over the place. It was a day that would suggest any- 
 thing else in the world before death, and there it was 
 death, and worse than death on every side of us. 
 
 I looked about for a w r hile in the hope of helping 
 some one, but we were too late to be of any real ser- 
 vice; it was a case for the doctors, in most instances, 
 and how can a stranger comfort a man who has just 
 seen his wife and children mangled out of recog- 
 nition and wiped out of his life forever ? Of course, 
 there were some of them that were hysterical to the 
 point of danger, and there were others that sat about 
 their dead, dry-eyed and looking out across the 
 fields as if the setting of the sun was the only thing 
 that was of any real interest to them in the world. I 
 picked my way across a stream that ran by the road- 
 bed and climbed up a little hill overlooking the wreck. 
 
 4
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 The hill was thick with pine-trees and the ground, 
 slippery with brown needles, was strewn with pieces 
 of painted wood from the cars and glistening, twisted 
 bits of machinery from the two engines. There were 
 a good many odd pieces of men's and women's 
 clothing, too, lying about, and quite a number of 
 broken hats and some pieces of trunks and suit- 
 cases. Half-way up the hill a little group of passen- 
 gers had gathered about a young man who was sit- 
 ting on the ground, his back against a pine-tree. He 
 had evidently been placed there until the doctors 
 could carry him away on one of their improvised 
 stretchers. The little circle who stood about him 
 must have annoyed him, for as I approached I saw 
 him half raise his arm and motion them away. It 
 was a feeble effort at best, but I suppose they knew 
 what he meant, for the party suddenly broke up into 
 couples and wandered back to the wreck. At the 
 moment I was standing perhaps twenty feet away 
 and a little back of him, so he probably believed that 
 he was quite alone. He was a young man, perhaps 
 twenty-eight or thirty neither good nor bad look- 
 ing, I should think, but it was difficult to tell exactly, 
 
 5
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 as his face was gray as putty and all screwed up with 
 the pain. He was smooth-shaven and he had red 
 hair and was dressed as a man would who was in 
 good circumstances. When the circle about him 
 had broken up and the men had started down the 
 hill, I noticed that a look of great relief seemed to 
 come into his face. His head still resting against the 
 tree, he looked up for a moment through the straight 
 branches of the pines to the patches of blue sky 
 above. I could see his face more clearly then, and 
 during that moment I am sure that the pain had left 
 him, that his mind was clear, and that he had asked 
 his last favor on this earth. For a moment he closed 
 his eyes, and when he opened them again it was evi- 
 dent that he saw the little group of men who were 
 coming toward him with the stretcher. And then I 
 saw him raise his arm with great difficulty and take 
 from the inside pocket of his coat a folded piece of a 
 newspaper. This he spread out upon his knees, but 
 after one brief glance he crumpled it in both hands 
 and threw it as far away from him as his feeble 
 strength allowed. 
 
 They carried him away down the little hill over 
 6
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 the soft carpet of pine-needles, glowing like copper 
 in the broad shafts of the evening sun. As they 
 reached the creek I saw the arm of the young man, 
 which had been resting over his eyes, suddenly fall 
 to his side. For a moment the little procession 
 halted; one of the physicians knelt at the side of the 
 litter and looked searchingly into the face of the 
 young man. Then the doctor pulled himself to his 
 feet again and nodded in the direction of the section 
 house, and they carried him on very slowly and very 
 silently, with their hats in their hands. As I started 
 down the hill I saw the crumpled piece of paper 
 which the young man had thrown away lying but a 
 few feet from me. For a moment I hesitated, and 
 then I went over to where it lay and picked it up. It 
 was half a page torn from the Saturday illustrated 
 supplement of a New York evening paper. At the 
 first glance it looked dull enough, but I felt sure that 
 somewhere it contained at least a minor story in the 
 life of the young man; so I carefully folded the torn, 
 crumpled sheet and put it away in my pocket. Then 
 I walked down to the section house where the young 
 man had already been identified by some letters and 
 
 7
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 his visiting-cards. His name was Hugh Musgrove 
 and the address given was "Editorial Rooms Tlie 
 
 Evening , New York." 
 
 It was some hours later, when our train had 
 started on a long circuitous route to New York, that 
 I again looked at the torn piece of newspaper that 
 Musgrove had thrown away just previous to his 
 death. On one side there was a description of a 
 recent flood in the Far West -and some illustrations 
 showing the damage it had done; the other side was 
 part of the dramatic department of the paper and 
 the letter press was devoted to a description of sev- 
 eral theatrical attractions which were to open in New 
 York the following Monday. In addition to the let- 
 ter press there were three pictures all of women. 
 The centre and largest picture of the three was a big, 
 handsome woman, dressed in the robes of Brunhilde. 
 The caption under the picture read "Madame 
 Carlotta Helma, who gives her farewell song recital 
 Thursday afternoon at Carnegie Hall." On the 
 right side of this there was a picture of a very young 
 woman with a slight girlish figure and a face re- 
 markable for a wonderful purity and sweetness of 
 
 8
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 expression. She was dressed in a very simple evening 
 dress and was posed as if about to begin playing the 
 violin. Under this picture was the line, "Miss Agnes 
 Beach, who makes her debut Wednesday night with 
 the Philharmonic Society orchestra at Chickering 
 Hall." The third picture was that of a young woman, 
 remarkable at least for her figure and a wealth of 
 hair, which may or may not have been a wig. She 
 had big eyes, clean-cut features, and although she 
 was undoubtedly heavily made up when the original 
 photograph had been taken, her beauty was easily 
 evident. The caption read: "Miss Deane Kimball, 
 in the Cockatoo chorus of 'The Belle and the Bandit,' 
 which opens Monday night at the Casino." 
 
 Perhaps it was from mere curiosity, or perhaps 
 there was an underlying hope of doing a kindly act in 
 telling one of the three women the last incident in the 
 life of Musgrove, but whatever the motive, when I re- 
 turned to New York, I wrote a letter to each of the 
 three. The addresses of Madame Helma and Miss 
 Beach I learned through a musical agency. The 
 letter to Miss Kimball I mailed to the Casino. This 
 is what I wrote in each letter: 
 
 9
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 DEAR MADAM: Following the recent terrible railroad 
 accident at Mill's Crossing, it was my misfortune to be 
 present at the death of a young man whom, I believe, you 
 numbered among your friends. As it is purely a private 
 matter, I am tempted to ask you to permit me to call on 
 you personally, rather than to write you concerning the 
 
 incident. Believe me, 
 
 Yours truly, etc. 
 
 For several days after the accident I carefully read 
 the newspapers to obtain, if possible, some informa- 
 tion concerning Hugh Musgrove. In the revised lists 
 of the dead he was referred to as either the assistant 
 musical, or assistant dramatic, critic of The Evening 
 
 , or merely as a journalist. Not a word about his 
 
 home or his family, and the last I saw about him in 
 the papers was a paragraph to the effect that he had 
 been buried from an Eighth Avenue undertaker's 
 shop. 
 
 Within forty-eight hours after I had mailed my 
 letters I received an answer from each of the three 
 women. Madame Helma asked me to call the 
 following evening at half past six o'clock at the 
 Cambridge Hotel; Miss Beach, who answered me 
 
 10
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 through her father, said that she could see me any 
 evening after eight o'clock at her home on Clinton 
 Place; Miss Kimball sent me as her address The 
 Barclay, on West Forty-third Street, and said that 
 she could usually be found at home between five and 
 seven-thirty in the evening. None of them mentioned 
 Musgrove's name, but that did not surprise me, as I 
 had refrained from writing it myself, and in a wreck 
 of such proportions as the one at Mill's Crossing, it 
 was possible for almost every one to have numbered 
 one or more friends in the list of the killed. 
 
 With the torn piece of newspaper in my coat 
 pocket I presented myself the next evening at the 
 Cambridge and was shown to Madame Helma's 
 apartment. Of the woman I knew but little beyond 
 the fact that she was born in America and that she 
 was recognized as one of the greatest dramatic so- 
 pranos in the world. In a vague way I rather imag- 
 ined I had heard that she had been married to an 
 Austrian officer of title. I did not for a moment be- 
 lieve that she was the one of the three women who 
 had interested the ill-fated Musgrove, but it was part 
 of my general plan to call on all three of them, and 
 
 11
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the appointment which she had made for me was the 
 first to find me at leisure. Madame occupied a suite 
 on the third floor of the hotel at the corner overlooking 
 Fifth Avenue. Her Austrian husband, with a small, 
 tawny pointed mustache and a tawny pointed beard, 
 met me at the door and showed me with much man- 
 ner into the drawing-room. For a few moments we 
 chatted on purely impersonal subjects, looked at 
 large, fiercely autographed photographs of other 
 opera singers which stood about on the mantel-shelf 
 and piano, and then the portieres opened and Ma- 
 dame Helma herself appeared. She was a very big, 
 fine-looking woman, and in the little salon and by the 
 side of her husband, she really appeared quite heroic 
 in size. She was evidently on her way to dinner, and 
 her dress and opera-cloak as well as her jewels were 
 really regal. Her manner to me, might be described, 
 in a general way, as gracious, but it was the gra- 
 ciousness of the truly condescending and like the 
 few other opera singers I have known, her belief in 
 herself was so great that she appeared as two women 
 the great artist standing quite apart, the other, the 
 female worshipper, ready to admire at any distance. 
 
 12
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 Madame Helma threw her cloak over one of the 
 deep red velvet chairs, sank majestically into an- 
 other, and with a move of her ample arm, consigned 
 me to a small brocade and gold affair with very 
 slight spindle legs. The Austrian husband stood 
 by the fireplace and alternately puffed at a cigar- 
 ette and twisted the ends of his beard and tawny 
 mustache. 
 
 Madame preferred to dispense with all prelimi- 
 nary formalities. "Your note said," she began, 
 "that you wished to see me on a matter of a more 
 or less personal nature." 
 
 The husband glanced up and took a step toward 
 the door, but madame, with a barely perceptible 
 movement of the wrist, waved him back to the 
 hearth. The husband clicked his heels and bowed 
 to us in turn. "It is more than possible," I said, 
 "that I have made a serious mistake, Madame 
 Helma, and that this visit may prove but an unnec- 
 essary annoyance to you." 
 
 The eyebrows of madame became somewhat 
 pointed and I saw the husband stealthily pull out his 
 watch. 
 
 13
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "I am coming to the point at once," I said. "Did 
 you by any chance ever know a young newspaper 
 man by the name of Hugh Musgrove?" Madame 
 Helma slowly and deliberately bowed her assent. 
 She evidently did not wish to have the young man 
 regarded as one of her intimates. 
 
 "I know him but slightly," she said thoughtfully. 
 "You remember him, Louis, surely the young man 
 that came to interview me after the 'Traviata' mat- 
 inee, when the draperies caught fire on the stage at 
 the Metropolitan and I saved, oh, so many lives ? 
 He also came to tea one day later when we had some 
 other newspaper men." 
 
 "I know him well, very well," said the husband. 
 "He was most charming, gracious, and, my dear, 
 how he admired you! What is the matter with the 
 young man?" 
 
 "Oh," I said, "you don't know?" Madame 
 Helma was arranging a piece of lace on her corsage, 
 but the husband shook his head. 
 
 "He was killed," I said, "in a railroad wreck at 
 Mill's Crossing." 
 
 "Mon Dieu," said the husband; "what do you 
 14
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 think of that! He was so young, and how he loved 
 my Carlotta!" 
 
 Madame Helma looked up at her husband ques- 
 tioningly. "I wonder, Louis, if he really did love 
 me the poor boy ! He was young and not bad look- 
 ing. I can almost see him now. He sat where you 
 are sitting it was but very recently almost the 
 other day. And when he talked of my art he really 
 seemed inspired." 
 
 "Vraiment," interrupted the husband, "his love 
 for you, as you say, was inspired. Le pauvre gar- 
 con!" 
 
 "I don't think he loved me at all," Madame 
 Helma interrupted. "True, he told me how he ad- 
 mired me for having withstood all the temptations 
 with which every great artist is beset. We are very 
 temperamental, you know, of course, very tempera- 
 mental. Many of my sisters in art have succumbed 
 to their artistic environment, but I have happily re- 
 mained saturated in the very essence of temperament 
 and yet withstood its entanglements." 
 
 The virtues of Madame Helma seemed fairly 
 to swell within her and her magnificent physique 
 
 15
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 to fill the red plush chair even more amply than 
 before. 
 
 "I think it was for this," she went on, "and for 
 my position in the social world that Mr. Musgrove 
 really admired me. Don't you remember, Louis, 
 when he told us how he used to go to all my per- 
 formances and watch the people and their enthusi- 
 asm? He spoke particularly of my rendering of 
 'Dich, theure Halle,' and how the audience rose and 
 cheered me." For a moment Madame Helma be- 
 came almost human. "I remember he said that that 
 represented to him the very pinnacle of fame; that 
 .while the author and the painter might know a more 
 enduring success, the reward came slowly often 
 after death while the great opera singer could her- 
 self feel the tremendous effect on her audience and 
 receive their homage at almost the same moment. 
 I think it was just fame that that young man craved 
 fame and glory and the notoriety that goes with it. 
 It was natural, after all, because he really, I suppose, 
 had no fame at all, had he ? Louis, you had better 
 send some flowers to his funeral." 
 
 "It's too late, I fear," I answered, rising. "The 
 16
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 young man was buried yesterday, and, as you sug- 
 gest, without ever having attained to any great de- 
 gree of fame. He was buried from an undertaker's 
 shop on Eighth Avenue." 
 
 My mission was at an end. Of the three women 
 whose portraits appeared in the paper, which I still 
 had in my inside pocket, Madame Helma's was the 
 last which I should have imagined would have occu- 
 pied a young man's thoughts, with death staring 
 him in the face. Nothing, however, would have in- 
 duced me to show the torn newspaper to Madame 
 Helma, or to have told her how and why it came 
 into my possession. As I reached the door of the 
 apartment, however, it seemed incumbent upon me 
 to say something, which would answer as an apology 
 for my visit. 
 
 "I fear, Madame Helma," I said, "that I have 
 intruded upon you needlessly I knew Hugh Mus- 
 grove very slightly, but from an incident in his life I 
 imagined that he was a friend of yours rather than 
 an acquaintance. I was with him when he died, and 
 I thought that you might care to hear more of his 
 end. I must ask your pardon for my error." 
 
 17
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Madame Helma was being helped into her mantle 
 by her Austrian husband. We all three bowed 
 somewhat stiffly I fear I had made them a little 
 late for their dinner. The large presence of Madame 
 Helma had overpowered me, and its spell was still 
 upon me as I wandered down the ill-lit hallway and 
 rang for the elevator. At least, in one thing, she was 
 wise. Musgrove did not love her in his eyes she 
 stood for fame. And so it seemed his last thoughts 
 were of her, the last face he looked upon was that of 
 Madame Helma and the face of Madame Helma 
 was to him the sweetest face in all the world, because 
 it was the face of fame and because the lips of fame 
 had never touched his own. 
 
 I confess that I was glad to reach the sidewalk and 
 breathe the fresh air again. I turned down Thirty- 
 third Street, and before I had walked a block my 
 feelings, which had been badly ruffled by Madame 
 Helma and her miserable little husband, were pretty 
 well under control. I did not know Hugh Musgrove, 
 but I was really annoyed that any man should have 
 died with the thought of that woman in his brain. 
 As I turned into Broadway, I noticed the clock over 
 
 18
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 the Dime Savings Bank. It was a quarter to seven. 
 "Why not?" I mumbled, and jumped on a north- 
 bound surface car. 
 
 I found The Barclay to be like most of the other 
 modern apartment houses that lie north of Forty- 
 second Street and west of Fifth Avenue. On the 
 office floor there was the usual luxurious display of 
 varicolored marble, frescoes, brass railings and large 
 mirrors, but as the elevator shot upward, the colored 
 marble and frescoes gave way to burlap, and at the 
 tenth floor, on which Miss Deane Kimball had her 
 apartment, the walls could boast of but the cheapest 
 kind of wall-paper. As I entered the sitting-room 
 Miss Kimball rose from the table at which she had 
 been eating her dinner. The meal seemed to have 
 been a somewhat frugal one and was served on a 
 napkin-covered tin tray. Miss Kimball nodded to 
 me cheerfully, removed a large cup of coffee from 
 the tray and covered the remnants of her dinner with 
 her napkin. 
 
 "You must excuse the condition of the room," she 
 said, "but I have been lying about all day and 
 the girl has had no time to fix it up." She spoke 
 
 19
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 in the low-pitched, drawling voice of the Virginia 
 bred. 
 
 Under the circumstances, it seemed obligatory 
 Upon me to cast one glance about before I could pro- 
 test that the condition of the room was all it should 
 be. I found the walls were decorated with many 
 photographs of Miss Kimball, and, I believe, Miss 
 Kimball only, although the costumes in which she 
 had posed were many and varied. There was a tiny 
 desk, a few lounging chairs, and a cozy-corner strewn 
 with copies of the evening newspapers. In the gen- 
 eral tidiness of her appearance Miss Kimball scarcely 
 rose superior to that of her surroundings. She wore 
 a black silk underskirt, a pink dressing-sack covered 
 with much imitation lace, and her great mass of red 
 hair was sadly dishevelled. She was one of the few 
 women I had ever seen whose physical attractions, 
 judged from a purely material standpoint, admitted 
 of no discussion. Her color was as clear, her eyes 
 as bright, her figure as lithe, every move of her arms 
 and body as supple as that of an athlete. Her dress 
 may have been careless, but her condition was superb. 
 
 "Won't you sit down?" she said. "I'll have to 
 20
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 go to the theatre pretty soon." She walked over to 
 the fireplace and looked at herself in the glass. She 
 ran the white tapering fingers of both hands through 
 the heavy mass of hair. "I'm a sight," she said, but 
 as she said it, I looked into the mirror and saw her 
 smiling at her own beauty. 
 
 She returned to the table, and still standing, raised 
 with both hands the heavy china cup of coffee to her 
 lips and sipped at it slowly. Her manner seemed to 
 me to be more casual than familiar. It was as if I 
 had known her always and had dropped in to discuss 
 our party of the night previous. If she had ever 
 understood that I had called on her with a definite 
 purpose in view, such an idea was apparently wholly 
 foreign to her now. But the time was short, and so 
 I came to the point at once. 
 
 "Miss Kimball," I said, "did you ever know Hugh 
 Musgrove ? " She turned her big smiling eyes on me 
 over the rim of the cup, and took a particularly long 
 sip of coffee. 
 
 "I certainly did," she said. "I should say I did 
 know Hugh Musgrove. He was killed in that wreck 
 the other day. I'd have gone to his funeral only I 
 
 21
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 thought there would propably be a lot of newspaper 
 boys there and they might feature me. I wasn't look- 
 ing for that kind of ad. He'd have got all the adver- 
 tising he wanted when my divorce comes up next 
 month. Now he's gone, they probably won't men- 
 tion his name at the trial at all. If I'd gone to the 
 funeral that might all have come out, mightn't it? 
 I sent him a pillow of roses without a card, or a 
 motto, or anything on it. I heard the tributes were 
 all right." 
 
 The door opened and a girl walked in. Her dark, 
 glossy hair was heavily marcelled and she wore a 
 black cloth coat and a closely fitting white flannel 
 skirt. She stopped at the doorway while she stuck 
 a hat-pin through the crown of a broad black hat. 
 Miss Kimball introduced her as "My friend from 
 the end of the hall Miss Wilmot." The girl nodded 
 to me, walked over to the window, and looked out on 
 the brick court. She had heavy, handsome features 
 and an olive complexion and her face seemed inca- 
 pable of showing any emotion whatever. 
 
 "Hurry up, Deane," she said; "it's time to start 
 for the theatre." 
 
 22
 
 "I should say I did know Hugh Musgrove.
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 "The bubble's not here yet," answered Miss Kim- 
 ball, sitting down at the table, "and I've only got to 
 change my skirt. I'm not going out after the show. 
 This gentleman knew Hugh." 
 
 "I did not know him very well, but I happened to 
 be with him when he died," I said half apologetically, 
 although an apology seemed rather superfluous. 
 
 Miss Wilmot continued to look out on the court 
 and beat a slow tattoo on the window-pane. "He 
 was a good boy," she said. "He liked Deane." 
 
 Miss Kimball intertwined her fingers behind her 
 head and gazed up at the chandelier. "Yes, he liked 
 me all right," she said reflectively. "You see, he used 
 to come up here and sit of an afternoon when he was 
 tired after the office. It was a sort of home to him. 
 He could smoke a cigarette and play the piano if he 
 wanted to. Why, I'd known Hugh Musgrove all my 
 life. We used to play together in Richmond when 
 we were kids. He lived right around our corner. 
 His folks were splendid people no better in Rich- 
 mond. We used to spin tops and jump rope to- 
 gether, and prisoners' base it was we used to play." 
 
 "That's why he didn't like getting mixed up in 
 23
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the divorce," Miss Wilmot interrupted. "Did you 
 know that, Deane ? Sure as you're born, that's what 
 he told me." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Why, that no gentleman ought to ever be mixed 
 up in a divorce suit with a girl he'd spun tops with. 
 He said it was worse than cheating at cards." 
 
 Miss Kimball stretched her well-rounded arms in 
 front of her on the table. "He did, eh? Now what 
 do you think of that? He was a -queer kid. He was 
 sort of cheap, and yet, in his way, he was all right. 
 He was a comfortable sort of person to have around." 
 
 The telephone bell rang and Miss Wilmot crossed 
 the room and took off the receiver. "It's the elec- 
 tric, Deane," she said. "Hurry up; we're late now!" 
 
 Miss Kimball sat unmoved, her pink arms in front 
 of her. Then she turned questioningly to me. "You 
 didn't know him well, you said?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Well, now, I'll tell you. He was the kind of 
 man if you needed money and sent out a hurry call 
 or a circular letter, you could always depend on him. 
 Not much but a five or ten and the friends that 
 
 24
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 could give up a yellow-back and not feel it would for- 
 get you. You know what I mean ?" 
 
 Miss Kimball pulled herself together and glanced 
 up at the scowling face of Miss Wilmot. "You 
 want to go don't you, May ? Can't we drop you 
 some place ?" she added, turning to me. 
 
 "You're very good," I said; "but I'm not going 
 far." 
 
 "No? Hughey was very fond of the bubble 
 anything with soft cushions and that came easy. He 
 was a bit of a loafer, Hughey. Was there anything 
 else you wanted to know about him ?" Miss Kimball 
 got up from the table and held out her hand. "Glad 
 to have met you. Don't make yourself strange. I 
 suppose you come to the theatre sometimes ? " 
 
 "Yes, I shall come even more often now," I said. 
 I shook her slim, well-cared-for hand, bowed to Miss 
 Wilmot, and took my leave. 
 
 As I again passed through the marble hallway of 
 The Barclay I could not, even had I wished it, throw 
 off completely the spell of the woman upstairs; the 
 low purr of her voice, the wonderful animal beauty 
 of her face and hair, and, above all, the indolent 
 
 25
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 grace of her, were just as evident to me then as they 
 were when I was in the same room with her. I saw 
 her often afterward pn the stage, which seemed, after 
 all, to be the niche which nature had carved out for 
 her. It was not easy to conceive, for instance, the 
 dimpled arms pushing a perambulator, or the high, 
 silk-clad instep working the pedal of a sewing- 
 machine. As a picture framed by a proscenium arch 
 and lit by a row of footlights, Miss Deane Kimball 
 was a superb, vital force, and if the last thoughts of 
 the somewhat human Mr. Musgrove harked back to 
 the days of her regime, it is for each one to censure or 
 praise, as the case may be. 
 
 It was just eight o'clock the next night when I got 
 off a Broadway car at Eighth Street and walked 
 slowly west toward Sixth Avenue, looking up at the 
 dingy doorways for the number of the house of Miss 
 Agnes Beach. I found it at last a fine example of 
 the old New York home. Its faded brick front with 
 brown-stone trimmings was flanked on one side by 
 a cheap table-d'hote restaurant and on the other by a 
 delicatessen shop. With its polished windows and 
 well-scrubbed steps, the old mansion seemed to hold 
 
 26
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 a place of much dignity in that decayed and unkempt 
 neighborhood. Isolated and forgotten, the very 
 name of its street taken from it, the old place stood 
 there protesting against the changes of the last fifty 
 years and the squalor they had brought to its door. 
 I climbed the steep, worn steps and pulled at the little 
 bell, sunk deep in its round brass socket. An old 
 man with white hair opened the door and stood bow- 
 ing before me in the broad hallway. He wore a 
 dressing-gown of quilted silk tied about his waist 
 with a cord with tassels at the ends of it. As I stepped 
 into the hallway I looked beyond to a broad stairway 
 and walls and curtains of faded red. It occurred to 
 me, at the time, as the only background possible for 
 the old man with the white hair and the quilted 
 dressing-gown. 
 
 "You are the gentleman, I presume," he said, 
 "who wrote my niece in regard to that terrible dis- 
 aster." 
 
 "Your niece is Miss Agnes Beach, then ?" I asked. 
 
 The old man bowed. "She and her father have 
 their apartments on the floor above. If you will 
 
 kindly follow me " The old man started slowly 
 
 27
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 up the stairway, leaning heavily on the balustrade. 
 Apparently, then, I was expected, and perhaps, after 
 all, I had done well to make this third visit. I could 
 easily understand that the members of this household 
 were not accustomed to receive unusual letters from 
 unknown young men, and that the visit of a stranger 
 was, without question, an event of some moment. 
 A single hanging gas-burner lit us on our way up the 
 long stairway. Our shoes sunk noiselessly into the 
 deep faded carpet and the complete silence of 
 the place oppressed me. For a moment I halted on the 
 stairway, listening for the rumble of a cart, the jangle 
 of a car-bell, or the cry of a newsboy from the world 
 outside, but through the heavy walls of the old house 
 no sound reached me. Surely, then, I had found iso- 
 lation itself and the most cruel loneliness of all the 
 loneliness of a great city. 
 
 The old man knocked gently at the door at the 
 head of the landing, and his brother, in appearance 
 and in the courtesy of his manner, his very counter- 
 part, bowed me graciously into the sitting-room. There 
 was but little light only a lamp on the centre-table, 
 but as I entered I saw a girl rise from the shadows of 
 
 28
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 a far corner and come to greet me. She was dressed 
 in deep mourning, and even in the dim light I could 
 see her drawn face and the heavy shadows under her 
 eyes. When she reached the centre table she stopped 
 and held out a white hand toward me. In the soft 
 glow of the lamp I saw again the face of the girl with 
 the violin. There was the same childish beauty, the 
 same sincerity and sweetness, but added to all this 
 there was a pathos, an unconscious plea for human 
 pity. 
 
 "You were with Hugh when he died ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I was with him until the very 
 end." 
 
 Through her clouded eyes she looked up at me as 
 if, indeed, mine had been a great privilege. 
 
 "He he didn't suffer much?" she whispered. 
 
 "No," I said. "I thought you would want to know 
 that the end came very quickly and very peacefully." 
 The dull-yellow glare from the lamp suddenly seemed 
 to flare up before me and I saw a young man sitting 
 with his back resting against a tree on a hillside. 
 The whole place was bathed in yellow sunlight and 
 the air was full of the smell of springtime, but through 
 
 29
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 it all I saw the face of the young man, ashen and 
 twisted. I felt the girl's hand loosen in my own, and 
 so I grasped it tightly, and the contact of it brought 
 me back to the lamp at my side and the girl in black 
 and the old man standing silently at the door. 
 
 "You knew him before, then ?" she asked. 
 
 "No," I said, "I never knew him before." 
 
 The girl looked up at me as if she could not quite 
 understand how it was that every one had not known 
 Hugh Musgrove. "He was very good to know," 
 she said. And then the very inadequacy of her words 
 forced a smile to her pale lips. "And he was very 
 fine," she added, "and true and he was so very 
 so very good to dad and me." 
 
 "I wish I could have told you more," I said. 
 
 The girl nodded her head. "You told me what I 
 wished most to know. I am so glad you came." 
 
 Her hand, nerveless and cold, dropped from my 
 own and I bowed myself to the door. Her father 
 closed it softly behind us and led me down the broad 
 stairway to his brother's apartment on the ground 
 floor. With much courtesy my host asked me to be 
 seated at a centre-table, about which three chairs 
 
 30
 
 'You told me what I wished most to know.
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 had been placed. On the polished surface of the old 
 mahogany there were three glasses, a decanter of port 
 and some crackers in a silver cake-basket. The host 
 poured out the wine and after raising our glasses we 
 drank in silence. The father of Miss Beach leaned 
 across the table and laid his hand gently on my arm. 
 
 "You must not be hurt, sir, if my daughter gave 
 you but a scant welcome," he said. "Youth is always 
 intolerant, you know, and she is very young. Her 
 mother died when the girl was only a child, and this 
 is her first tragedy. She cannot quite understand 
 why it should have come to her." The old man hesi- 
 tated for a moment and apparently unconsciously 
 raised the glass to his lips. 
 
 "Perhaps you did not know," he went on, "that 
 Hugh was engaged to my daughter it was just 
 about to be announced. If all went well they were 
 to be married in the fall. He was her life he and 
 her music. They played together almost every night. 
 I used to accompany her, but then Hugh came and 
 she would allow only him to play for her, although 
 I have been a music-teacher for many years, and he 
 well, he did not play very well. She was quite 
 31
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 deaf to his mistakes love, you know, they say, is 
 blind, and I have thought it was often deaf, too. 
 He really played, oh, so badly. But it was wonderful 
 to see the lights in her eyes when she took the bow in 
 her hand and waited for Hugh to play the first notes. 
 And now she is so tired and frail and the color is 
 gone she is as white as we two old men." He stopped 
 for a moment and with his elbow on the table rested 
 his chin in the palm of his hand. 
 
 "But Hugh was of great help to her," he went on. 
 "He knew many of the most famous musical people 
 in town, and it was really through him that Agnes 
 was to make her debut with the Philharmonic." 
 
 "And now?" I asked. 
 
 The old man looked up in much surprise at my 
 question. "Now?" he repeated. "She says she will 
 never play again. She says that her love for her 
 violin died with him. But she is young, you know, 
 and I think that in time she may find a certain con- 
 solation in her music. It was the same with me. I, 
 too, put away my music, but the time came when 
 our wants forced me to take it up again." 
 
 The old man raised his glass and looked down 
 32
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 into the dark red-colored wine. "But I don't think 
 the music was ever quite the same." 
 
 It seemed to me that Mr. Beach had said all that 
 he had wished to say to me, and so I rose to go. It 
 was at this moment that I remembered that the torn 
 page from the supplement was still in my pocket. 
 
 "Do you think it would be possible," I asked, "to 
 see your daughter again for a moment ?" 
 
 "You will find that she is still in the sitting-room, 
 I am sure," he said. 
 
 As I went up the stairway again, but this time 
 alone, I took out the half -page of the newspaper and 
 carefully tearing off the part containing the picture 
 of Miss Beach, put the rest back in my pocket. I 
 found her standing at the piano, and as I entered she 
 looked up at me, dry-eyed, and with almost a smile 
 of welcome on her lips. 
 
 "I know you'll pardon me," I said, "but I had 
 very nearly forgotten the real object of my visit; 1 
 wanted to give you this piece of paper. Just before 
 his death I saw him take it from his pocket and look 
 at it. It was the last face he ever saw his last 
 thoughts were of her." 
 
 33
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 The girl took the torn piece of paper from my 
 hand, but she did not look at it. There was surely 
 no doubt in her mind who was the original of the 
 portrait. 
 
 I found the two old men waiting for me in the hall- 
 way downstairs. We saluted each other gravely and 
 parted with proper ceremony. The door closed 
 noiselessly behind me as I walked slowly down the 
 steps and stopped irresolutely on the curbstone. 
 Directly across the street there was a cheap French 
 restaurant. Through the open window I saw two 
 young men playing dominoes at a marble table, 
 and a waiter with a dirty apron leaning over the 
 counter smiling at the woman cashier. Everything, 
 after those two old men and the girl in black whom I 
 had just left, seemed so soiled and unworthy. I took 
 out of my pocket all there remained of the half -page 
 of the supplement, tore it into small pieces, and threw 
 it into the dirty street. So far as I was concerned, 
 there was an end to it and I knew no more than I 
 had two days before. Perhaps the young girl in the 
 old house back of me was right, and there could only 
 have been one thought in Musgrove's mind, and 
 
 34
 
 EVERYMAN'S RIDDLE 
 
 that was of her. But it may have been that he looked 
 last at the portrait of Madame Helma, whose world- 
 wide fame he envied so, or perhaps it was that of 
 Miss Kimball, of the Cockatoo chorus, whose physi- 
 cal beauty he had evidently, too, admired very 
 greatly. And as I started to retrace my steps along 
 the dingy streets on my way back to the lights of 
 Broadway, I wondered, too, whether he had thrown 
 that paper away because he was ashamed to die with 
 it, or was it out of thoughtfulness for the fair name of 
 some woman. 
 
 35
 
 "BEAUTY" KERRIGAN
 
 "BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 AS the old man reached the doorway of the burning 
 building, the woman threw herself upon him and, 
 seizing him by the shoulders, wheeled him back tow- 
 ard her. 
 
 "I tell you they're not in the flat," she shrieked 
 above the roar of the flames. "Katie told me she was 
 goin' across the hall to the Cassidys." 
 
 The old man stood staring at his wife with his 
 mouth wide open and his arms hanging impotently 
 in front of him. "I thought they was to home," he 
 mumbled "honest, I thought they was to home." 
 
 Kerrigan picked his way over the network of hose 
 to the old couple, and shaking the man, tried to 
 rouse him from his stupor. "What's up?" he asked 
 briskly. 
 
 The old man, with wide frightened eyes, looked up 
 at the young one, but his tongue refused to move, so 
 he raised both arms and waved them toward the 
 
 39
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 burning tenement. But it was different with the 
 woman. There was an assurance in Kerrigan's man- 
 ner, and a certain eagerness in his eyes, that made her 
 believe him to be some one in authority, and so she 
 seized him by the broad shoulders and pulled him 
 down to her, so that she could shout in his ear. "My 
 kids are in there they'll be burned alive. The old 
 man told the fireman they was in the third floor 
 front, but I know they was at Cassidy's across the 
 hall in the rear building." 
 
 Kerrigan stepped back and looked up at the high 
 tenement with its gridiron of iron fire-escapes. The 
 upper stories were shut out now by clouds of heavy 
 black smoke, but the windows of the second and 
 third stories flared up like the open doors of a blast 
 furnace. Above the confused din of shouting fire- 
 men, the hissing shriek of escaping steam, the clang- 
 ing of bells from the third-alarm engines, and the 
 warning cries of the crowd, there arose the continuous 
 roar and the sharp crackle of unconquered flames. 
 A hose burst almost at Kerrigan's feet and the sting 
 of the cold water in his face once more stirred him 
 into action. 
 
 40
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 He seized the old woman and put his mouth to 
 her ear. "The third floor back?" he shouted. The 
 woman nodded her head at him, and then in her 
 frenzy turned to the crowds pressing against the 
 ropes. "For God's sake," she shrieked, "won't 
 somebody tell those firemen about my kids!" A pass- 
 ing fireman stopped at the woman's cry. "Have you 
 got kids in there?" he asked. The old woman only 
 shook her head and with her arms beat the air in the 
 direction of the flames. 
 
 "Well, you got to get out of this," the man said; 
 "that wall is liable to go any time now. The roof's 
 gone and the floors are givin' away already." With 
 both hands he half led, half dragged the old couple 
 away from the building, and with the aid of a police- 
 man finally forced them behind the ropes. 
 
 In the meantime Kerrigan stood looking into the 
 open doorway of the burning tenement. The fire had 
 not yet reached the lower floor, and it was quite pos- 
 sible that he could find the fireman who had gone for 
 the children and tell them that they were in the back 
 of the house. The front of the building was a raging 
 furnace, but there was a slight chance that it might 
 
 41
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 be better in the rear. For a moment he hesitated, 
 then he pulled his hat down hard and ran for the 
 open doorway. Inside there was a pale gray smoke 
 that smarted his eyes, and so he shut them tight and 
 promptly fell over a hose. He knew that this must 
 lead him to the firemen, and so with one hand on the 
 throbbing rubber and the other one feeling against 
 the wall, he groped his way along the narrow hall- 
 way. Half-way down the passage he found the stair- 
 way. The smoke was much thicker here and the 
 roar of the flames and the crackling of the timber 
 overhead was quite deafening, but the hose led him 
 on up the winding staircase. For a moment Kerri- 
 gan opened his eyes and through a rift in the smoke 
 lie was almost sure that he saw the outline of a figure 
 at the next landing. He clutched the banisters with 
 both hands and called aloud, but his voice seemed 
 to have lost all of its power, his eyes smarted terribly, 
 and the awful heat was becoming unbearable. 
 
 Outside in the sunlit streets a half-grown girl 
 pushed and fought her way through the dense crowd 
 of onlookers massed behind the fire lines. "Mother!" 
 she shrieked to the old woman, who was still calling 
 
 42
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 on some one to rescue her children. "Mother, shut 
 up, won't you the kids are over to Myer's drug 
 store." 
 
 "Glory be to God," whispered the old woman and 
 doubled up over the rope in front of her. And as she 
 did so the upper half of the front wall of the burning 
 building wavered, while the crowd shouted its warn- 
 ing and the grimy, rubber-coated firemen raced 
 toward the crowd for safety. For a moment the 
 great wall of brick and iron ladders staggered in mid- 
 air and then with a sullen roar fell backward and 
 crashed its way through the burning floors. 
 
 The lights had already begun to twinkle in the 
 skyscrapers when the four men gathered about the 
 city desk that night and talked of the Canal Street 
 fire and the past, the present and the future of 
 "Beauty" Kerrigan. Through the open windows 
 there came from the park below the shrill cries of 
 the newsboys, the rumble of the elevated trains and 
 the rush of many hurrying footsteps. The tall build- 
 ing trembled slightly and then settled to the cease- 
 less throbbing of the presses down in the basement 
 
 43
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 throwing out the night edition. The City Editor shut 
 his watch with a noisy click. "It won't do," he said 
 "it won't do. We've got to get this paper out earlier 
 or get out ourselves. Did any of you see Kerrigan ?" 
 
 " I saw what was left of ' Beauty ' under a blanket 
 on the way to the ambulance," The Cub volunteered. 
 "He was all covered up. Fielding was with him, 
 though; took him to the hospital, I guess, while I 
 was chasing the old woman that thought her kids 
 were in the building. That wide-eyed boy that re- 
 ports fires and conventions for the Tribune told me 
 that was what took 'Beauty' into the house to tell 
 the firemen where the kids were." 
 
 "That's just like Kerrigan," the Copy Reader 
 interrupted. "With every respect to a man in the 
 hospital ' Beauty ' certainly had a high regard for the 
 limelight. He ought to have been an actor." 
 
 The City Editor put his feet on the desk and clasp- 
 ing his hands behind his head, looked up at the cob- 
 webbed ceiling. "I liked Kerrigan," he said. "I 
 know what you mean, but he'd been called a Greek 
 God so long and so often that he began to believe he 
 was a little differently made from the rest of us. What- 
 
 44
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 ever happens to him it happened while he was trying 
 to save a couple of kids he never saw. You can't take 
 that away from him." 
 
 "I tell you, boys," interrupted the Sporting Edi- 
 tor, "you're all in wrong. He wasn't stuck on him- 
 self, but he loved health and condition just as any of 
 you love a piece of mince pie. He'd played on that 
 Western college ball team of his for four years, and 
 the football team, too, and he'd kept himself hard 
 ever since. He didn't smoke and he didn't drink, but 
 that didn't make him any the less of a man. He was 
 no more stuck on his Greek head than you are on 
 yours, but he did believe a man's body is a nice bit of 
 machinery to take care of, not a receptacle for every 
 violet-colored liqueur that comes from Paris, France. 
 I tell you I know the boy." 
 
 "All right," said the Copy Reader, "but not for 
 mine. His friend Fielding, that thinks so much of him, 
 is worth two of 'Beauty,' and can write better stuff 
 with his left hand. I know, because I read all they 
 write." 
 
 The City Editor continued to look up at the ceil- 
 ing. "Kerrigan was a little up in the air sometimes," 
 
 45
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 he said; "he was a bad reporter and Fielding is a 
 good man that is, to get facts. Kerrigan had too 
 much imagination he's a fiction writer. I'll bet you 
 now that Bert Fielding will be a reporter when Ker- 
 rigan is among the best six sellers that is, if he lives." 
 
 "Look out!" said The Cub "here's Fielding 
 now." 
 
 A young man came into the office, walked over to 
 a desk and picked up some letters and then joined 
 the four men. 
 
 "How's 'Beauty'?" asked the City Editor. 
 
 Fielding sat on a desk and shook his head. "Oh, I 
 don't know nobody knows anything yet. They 
 wouldn't let me see him, but I hear he's all smashed 
 up and burned, too, terribly. We've got to wait 
 that's all." Fielding clasped his hands together and 
 pressed them between his knees. Then he looked 
 slowly about him at each of the four men in turn. 
 " I tell you, it's hell to see those young doctors at the 
 hospital standing around there smiling and so cool 
 in their damned white suits and not able to do any- 
 thing. They're all right, I guess, but the worst of it is 
 I can't do anything." 
 
 46
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 "I suppose I suppose they'll make him com- 
 fortable," The Cub suggested. Fielding nodded. 
 "That's all right Kerry has a little money of his 
 own." 
 
 "Isn't there some one we ought to send for?" 
 asked the City Editor. 
 
 Fielding brushed his sleeve sharply across his eyes. 
 "Not that I know of," he said. "I've lived with him 
 for five years and he never mentioned any relatives 
 to me. He's alone just like I am." 
 
 The City Editor got up and laid his hand on 
 Fielding's shoulder. "Try to take it easy, old man," 
 he said. "It may all come out right. Better go now 
 and have a little dinner with us." 
 
 Fielding put out his hand and turned away his 
 head. "Thank you, but not now. I said I'd call up 
 the hospital a little later. They seemed to think they 
 might know something then." 
 
 The four men gathered about him and each in his 
 own way tried to show his sympathy, and then they said 
 good-night and left him sitting alone in the deserted 
 room. For some moments he sat swinging his legs on 
 the desk and looking wide-eyed out into space. Then 
 
 47
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 he pulled himself together and went over to the open 
 window. There was the scent of the early spring in 
 the air and a few silver stars were twinkling through 
 the purple sky. Fielding looked up at the stars and 
 shook his head. "But why 'Beauty' Kerrigan," he 
 asked, "of all the men in the world why 'Beauty' ? 
 Life and health and good looks meant so much more 
 to him than the rest of us. Just suppose You should 
 let him live just suppose that?" 
 
 It was late one evening the following June when 
 Fielding led a muffled figure through the long corri- 
 dors of the hospital to the cab waiting on the hot, 
 deserted street. Broken and twisted and scarred, 
 Kerrigan, even with the help of a cane and his 
 friend's arm, shuffled along but slowly and with 
 much effort. Before they started on that long, por- 
 tentous journey of two hours, Fielding had received 
 his final instructions in the private office of the head 
 doctor. 
 
 "Internally," said the little great man, carefully 
 weighing each word, "he is as well as you or I he 
 may outlive either or both of us. You understand it 
 is just as if you had smashed the case of a beautiful 
 
 48
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 watch, but the works had been left unimpaired. I 
 think he had the best frame and the best constitution 
 I ever met with in a long practice of course, it was 
 these that pulled him through. What he will need 
 now, and you must try very hard to help him to it, is 
 courage always courage. Courage to look into a 
 mirror courage to forget. And, above all, try to 
 keep up his interest in things and make him work, 
 work continuously the more the better." 
 
 "I understand, doctor," said Fielding, "and I'll 
 try very hard." Then he found his friend and to- 
 gether they started on their journey. 
 
 The stars were out and a young silver moon hung 
 over them when they reached the little town of Pleas- 
 ant Harbor. John Ferguson, the old Scotchman, who 
 was to be Kerrigan's servant, met them at the sta- 
 tion and drove them in a closed carriage to the home 
 that Fielding had prepared. During the past summer 
 Kerrigan and Fielding had driven from the hotel in 
 the village over this road many times, and on just 
 such nights as this, sometimes alone, when they al- 
 ways planned to buy the white farmhouse for their 
 old age; and more often they had driven with young 
 
 49
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 girls, who laughed and sang with them, just from the 
 animal happiness of health and the sheer joy of living. 
 They found Mary Ferguson, the wife of John Fer- 
 guson, the Scotchman, standing in the doorway, her 
 broad, buxom frame silhouetted against the square 
 of yellow light that flooded the room beyond. It 
 would have been her wish to have followed the men 
 into the long low sitting-room, because she would 
 have liked to have seen their pleasure over all the 
 beautiful flowers and ferns she had gathered in honor 
 of Kerrigan's home-coming. However, she did not 
 follow the two friends, who, arm in arm, entered the 
 house alone. For a few moments Kerrigan stood 
 resting on his cane and looking about at the gray 
 wall-paper, with its delicate tracing of yellow flowers, 
 at the bright chintz curtains and the old mahogany 
 furniture, all newly covered in green leather, and the 
 wood shining like burnished brass in the orange light 
 of the shaded lamps. In one corner of the room, just 
 by the window that looked out on the meadow and 
 the river beyond, they had placed a broad desk, with 
 all Kerrigan's writing things on it, and besides these 
 a great bowl of crimson ramblers. The desk was 
 
 50
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 flanked on either side by his books, and in the pictures 
 on the walls he found none but old friends. 
 
 He reached out his hand and laid it on Fielding's 
 arm. "It's all quite wonderful, Bert," he said 
 "quite wonderful, just like sunshine and that's 
 good, because you see this room is my whole world 
 now." 
 
 And this as events turned out was largely true. As 
 the long days passed Kerrigan seldom left the house, 
 and then only very late in the evening, when Ferguson 
 drove him in a closed carriage over the deep, sandy 
 roads. Sometimes, on a Saturday night, when Field- 
 ing had come down to stop over Sunday, the two 
 friends would go out sailing in their little cat-boat, 
 but these were Kerrigan's only excursions abroad. 
 The people of Pleasant Harbor had never seen the 
 mysterious stranger who lived in the old farmhouse 
 up the river, and, indeed, so long as he paid his bills 
 they were willing to forget the presence of their neigh- 
 bor, just as he wished to be forgotten. The children 
 of the village, however, were not so indifferent to the 
 newcomer and chose to believe that the only occupant 
 of the house, besides the Scotchman and his wife, 
 
 51
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 was a perfectly well-defined ghost. They spoke of the 
 old farmhouse now in whispers, and called it 
 "haunted," and always ran by the place at night, 
 although the house stood far back from the road. 
 To prove their point, they told of how a mysterious 
 crooked figure with a black cloak had been seen sail- 
 ing on the river, and at other times huddled in the 
 back of a carriage, and how, very late one moonlight 
 night, the same cloaked, crooked figure had been 
 discovered wandering over the golf links of the 
 "summer folks" and occasionally stopping and 
 making curious slow motions with his cane in the air, 
 just as a real ghost would do were he playing golf 
 with an invisible ball. 
 
 The Scotchman went to the post-office for the 
 mail every morning and again at night, and some- 
 times he received long bulky letters, and at other 
 times small thin ones, with the name of some pub- 
 lishing house in the corner; but all of these letters 
 were addressed to John Ferguson. The accounts at 
 the village were paid by checks signed by the same 
 name, and later on the name of John Ferguson began 
 to appear as an occasional contributor in the better 
 
 52
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 class of magazines. As a living being, "Beauty" 
 Kerrigan had stepped aside the day of the Canal 
 Street tenement fire and had let the world pass on. 
 As a human being, he existed only for Fielding and 
 his two servants; as a writer, he was slowly gaining a 
 place of honorable distinction, but the tributes to 
 fame that he had envied so in others, the tinsel suc- 
 cess that he had hoped and worked and prayed for in 
 his youthful days, now that it was almost within his 
 grasp, could never be his, because "Beauty" Kerri- 
 gan did not exist in the eyes of the world. "My home 
 is my tomb," he said once, and he believed it. To 
 his friend he spoke but little of his work, and indeed 
 Fielding usually read it for the first time when it 
 appeared in the magazines under the name of John 
 Ferguson. 
 
 But late in the spring of Kerrigan's first year at 
 Pleasant Harbor, he told Fielding of a drama he 
 wanted to write. To be the author of a successful 
 play had always been his ambition, and now be be- 
 lieved that it was time to move on toward that ac- 
 complishment. He had the scenario well mapped out, 
 even the minor characters had taken shape and 
 
 53
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 character in his mind, and he had already written 
 some of the dialogue for the "great" scene in the 
 second act. 
 
 And so, for the next few months, Kerrigan gave 
 up the short stories and the special articles and de- 
 voted himself to his drama. Every Sunday he would 
 read over to Fielding his week's work, and his friend, 
 who had a slight practical knowledge of the stage, 
 would make suggestions and revisions. 
 
 In the early fall Fielding carried the manuscript 
 back with him to New York and gave it to the 
 dramatic editor of his paper, who, he knew, could at 
 least obtain for it the serious consideration of the 
 managers. It was a month later when he wired to 
 Kerrigan one morning that a manager had made an 
 appointment with him to talk over the play. "It 
 may amount to nothing," he said at the end of his 
 message, "but there is a chance." 
 
 The manager sat behind a very large flat desk and 
 divided his time about equally between talking slowly 
 and silently rolling a long cigar between his lips. 
 The well-thumbed manuscript of the play lay on the 
 desk in front of him, and during the conversation he 
 
 54
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 occasionally ran a paper-cutter between its pages 
 and tapped it thoughtfully on the blue cover. 
 
 "I don't want to produce this play, very much," 
 he said, by way of introduction, "and I don't say 
 that to get better terms. Personally, I don't think 
 there is any money in it, and Miss Carew, who wants 
 to play it, will get very little out of it but reputation, 
 and I will probably lose something. I don't know 
 who the author is, but I should say that it was a man, 
 and one who knew very little of the stage that is, 
 its practical side. He has written two women parts, 
 of almost equal strength, and that is, as you probably 
 know, almost fatal. But Miss Carew wants to play 
 the part of 'Ellen,' and I know why she wants to 
 play it. It is what we call an actor's part it is the 
 sort of part any actress would enjoy playing before 
 critics or at a professional matinee. And about the 
 same thing might be said about the 'Millicent' part. 
 If I had a play which would give Miss Carew nearly 
 as good a chance as ' Ellen,' and still have the popular 
 element in it, I should not think of trying your piece, 
 but I haven't. I candidly don't think this is going to 
 be popular, but it is not an expensive play to put on, 
 
 55
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 and I have decided to take a chance. I will give you 
 five hundred dollars in advance and five per cent, on 
 the gross. That is not as much as the big ones get, 
 but I imagine the author is a beginner and he could 
 hardly expect more." 
 
 Fielding nodded. "I can answer for the author that 
 the terms will be all right. When do you think we can 
 get a production ?" 
 
 "At once," said the manager, briskly "the 
 sooner the better. This piece Miss Carew is playing 
 now won't do at all. I should like to begin rehearsals 
 immediately. The necessary changes can be made 
 as we go along. Can the author come to rehearsals ?" 
 
 Fielding shook his head : " I'm afraid not," he said. 
 
 "Is he alive?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Faraway?" 
 
 "No, not far," Fielding said. "It's hard to ex- 
 plain." 
 
 "It's hard on us, too. As I said before, the play 
 must be changed in a number of places to be effective. 
 I don't want to give the good lines to Miss Carew 
 and weaken the other parts, because we have both 
 
 56
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 agreed that this can't be done; but I must have the 
 author's help. He may think his work is over, but if 
 he knew more about this business, he would know 
 that it has just begun. I'm sorry to insist, but I 
 wouldn't care to go on without him. It would mean 
 calling in some play-carpenter, who would probably 
 spoil the atmosphere and ruin such chances as the 
 piece has now." 
 
 "Very good," said Fielding, "will you give me 
 until to-morrow noon ?" 
 
 "Sure if you can let me know the author's an- 
 swer then. Come in, and we can sign the contracts 
 and start on the scenery and rehearsals at once. 
 Good-day!" 
 
 Fielding did not wait for the elevator, but went 
 down the marble stairway two steps at a bound. 
 Then he took a cab for the ferry and a half hour later 
 was on the express for Pleasant Harbor. He found 
 Kerrigan waiting for him in the sitting-room. "It's 
 all right!" he cried, "it's all right! You're going to 
 get the production. Miss Carew is going to do it as 
 soon as they can get ready. Just think of it, your first 
 play and to be done on Broadway it's wonderful!" 
 
 57
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Kerrigan stood looking at him from across the 
 room as if he could not quite comprehend the full 
 extent of the fortune that had come to him. Then he 
 limped over to the door with the little window and 
 looked out on the river. Since the first days when he 
 had begun to write for his college paper, he had 
 looked forward to this moment. To write a play and 
 have it produced in New York by a successful star 
 had always seemed to him the greatest happiness 
 that could come to any man. The amount of money 
 he might thus earn had hardly occurred to him it 
 was the fame he courted. It was the cry of "author" 
 he craved the lights and the excitement and the 
 thrill of facing that great critical audience across the 
 footlights. And now it had all come true, this dream 
 of the days of his youth and health. It would all hap- 
 pen just as he had planned and hoped, but he would 
 not sit in the stage box and he would not make the 
 speech before the curtain after the "big" scene in 
 the second act. Instead he would look out on the 
 river that night from this little room of his, and he 
 would be quite alone. 
 
 Fielding knew as well all that was passing in Ker- 
 58
 
 "BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 rigan's mind as if his friend had been speaking aloud 
 to him. And so he waited until the cripple shuffled 
 over to his deep leather chair by the hearth. 
 
 "And I got pretty good terms, too, I think, 
 Kerry," he said "five hundred in advance!" 
 
 Kerrigan nodded, and for some moments the two 
 men sat looking at the burning logs on the broad 
 hearth. 
 
 "But there is one thing," Fielding said at last, 
 "that worries me a good deal. Bronson says there 
 must be some trifling changes made at rehearsal. It 
 seems there are certain places where the play is not 
 quite right that is, not practical." 
 
 Kerrigan nodded. "Of course, of course, I ex- 
 pected that, but I can make the changes down here." 
 
 For a moment Fielding hesitated. "I'm sorry, 
 Kerry," he said, "but Bronson insists that the author 
 must come up to town and work with him. He prac- 
 tically makes it a condition if he accepts the play." 
 
 Kerrigan looked at Fielding, but apparently with 
 unseeing eyes. "It's too bad!" he said. "I should 
 like very much to have had the production." For a 
 long time the only sound in the room came from the 
 
 59
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 crackle of the logs, and then Kerrigan put out his 
 hand and laid it gently on Fielding's arm and looked 
 him in the eyes. "Won't you go for me? You 
 understand be the author." 
 
 Fielding looked at his friend and smiled, and then 
 stretched his arms above his head. "Why, Kerry," he 
 said, "you know I couldn't do that, not even for you! 
 Anything you can ask of me but that!" 
 
 "I understand," Kerrigan said, "but who else is 
 there ? You are the only person who knows what the 
 play means and how it ought to be played. You could 
 come down here at night and we could make the 
 changes together, and write in any new scenes or 
 speeches they needed. You can be' John Ferguson 'as 
 well as I and it's only to a few people. You know you 
 had a lot to do with the play, as it is. You were such 
 a help won't you go on with it, please?" Kerrigan 
 slipped slowly back into his deep chair and looked at 
 the flames and waited. 
 
 Fielding sat with his arms tightly folded across his 
 breast and staring up at a portrait over the hearth. 
 Then his eyes turned to the bent figure lying in the 
 chair at his side. "All right, Kerry," he said, "that's 
 
 60
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 all right; I'll be the author 'John Ferguson' for 
 a few weeks." 
 
 The rehearsals of the new play "The Interpre- 
 ter," by John Ferguson had been going on for about 
 a week, when Miss Carew called, by appointment, at 
 the office of her manager. 
 
 "What do you think?" Bronson asked abruptly. 
 
 Miss Carew pursed her pretty lips and frowned 
 thoughtfully at the tip of her patent-leather boot. "I 
 think it's all right," she said. "I don't believe there is 
 a possibility of its not making a success that is in 
 an artistic way; it's a beautiful play. The critics will 
 like it nobody knows what the public is going to do. 
 It may be a little sad for them, but it seems to me 
 there is a tremendous human appeal in it, especially 
 in the part of ' Millicent.' " 
 
 "I know that that's why I sent for you. You 
 remember I told you." 
 
 Miss Carew nodded at Bronson and smiled. "I 
 know you did," she said. "Where did you get her? 
 I heard her say she'd never been on Broadway." 
 
 Bronson could not restrain a broad smile of self- 
 61
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 appreciation. "I heard about her work and her good 
 looks when she was here at a dramatic school. I didn't 
 take much stock in it, but I went to see her at one of 
 their performances and signed her up the same after- 
 noon. Then I sent her out West to do one-night 
 stands. I got her to go in stock at Kansas City all 
 last summer and let her stay there till this came 
 along. But I can take her out yet if you say so. 
 She's young enough to wait, and you know I'm 
 always ready to protect your interests. Speak up if 
 you want me to get some one else not quite so 
 strong." 
 
 Miss Carew shook her head. "That's all right," 
 she said, and held out a white-gloved hand. "I don't 
 mind if . the play makes a hit besides I need the 
 money." 
 
 Bronson bustled out of his swivel chair and patted 
 his star affectionately on the back. "You're a good 
 girl, Blanche," he said, and taking her arm started 
 her to ward the door, "you're a good girl." Miss Carew 
 stopped in the doorway and smiled over her shoulder 
 at the manager, who had returned to his desk and 
 was puffing great clouds of smoke from a freshly lit 
 
 62
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 cigar. "You got through that a good deal better than 
 you expected," she called, "didn't you?" 
 
 "A good deal better," he said, laughing, "a good 
 deal better!" 
 
 Fielding had obtained a leave of absence from his 
 paper for three weeks, and during the morning and 
 afternoon hours he sat down in front at Bronson's 
 favorite theatre and watched the rehearsals of the 
 play of which he was supposed to be the author. He 
 saw it grow and develop and become a perfect whole; 
 he saw actors and actresses who began by stumbling 
 through their lines, gradually grow into the men and 
 women that Kerrigan in his little room at Pleasant 
 Harbor had bred, and to whom he had given minds 
 and souls and human passions. For the most part 
 Fielding sat in the deserted orchestra, but sometimes 
 he went back on the stage and told some particular 
 player just what a line or a situation meant, and 
 often they sought him out and asked for his advice. 
 But the girl who probably needed his help the least, 
 and yet to whom he went and who came to him the 
 most often, was the girl who played "Millicent," and 
 
 63
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 who, as the character-man said when the rehearsals 
 first began, was going to "score, and score good." 
 
 Even to the unpracticed eye of Fielding there was 
 not much in common between this young girl, this 
 Ruth Emery, and her fellow players. The ways of 
 the stage-folk were not yet her ways. She seemed to 
 have acquired all the ambition and hope that had 
 long since been crushed out of their lives by years of 
 hard toil, and for which they had earned so little of 
 honor or accomplishment. 
 
 "She's wonderful!" he said to Kerrigan one night 
 after a long day of rehearsing "she's quite wonder- 
 ful ! They all run about and shout at her and she just 
 goes on being 'Millicent.' I could stand it all if you 
 could only see her that first night. We go out to a little 
 place around the corner every day now for lunch to- 
 gether and she never talks of anything but the play." 
 Kerrigan smiled. "And the playwright?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, you don't understand, Kerry, really you 
 don't. She doesn't care about men, especially me. 
 It's just the play. You know it's a great chance for 
 a young girl. She's really helped me with suggestions 
 more than I have her." 
 
 64
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 " Is she is she pretty ? " 
 
 " Pretty ? She's a wonder not like anybody you 
 ever saw. She promised to bring me some photo- 
 graphs to-morrow. I knew you would want to see 
 how she looked, so I'll bring them down to-morrow 
 night." 
 
 "And Miss Carew?" 
 
 "Fine really splendid, but she's different, that's 
 all!" 
 
 "Good-night!" Kerrigan said. "Good-night, old 
 man. I was sure something would make you forgive 
 me for making you a playwright. I didn't know it 
 would be Miss Emery, but it's all right so long as 
 you're happy. Don't forget the photographs." 
 
 And Fielding, true to his promise, did not forget 
 the photographs, but brought them down the next 
 night, and, to the exclusion of many old friends, they 
 were given the places of honor in the little white cot- 
 tage. On the very large photograph there was written : 
 "To the Author of 'The Interpreter' with the sincere 
 appreciation of Ruth Emery," and this was placed 
 on the mantel over the fireplace; the smaller picture 
 bore the one word "Ruth" and this was, by mu- 
 
 65
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 tual consent, carried to Fielding's own room under 
 the rafters. 
 
 For Fielding those three weeks of rehearsal were 
 three weeks of the most intense excitement and of a 
 complete happiness he had ever known. He watched 
 with increasing anxiety the play reach the point 
 where it was only necessary to add the finishing 
 touches and to work on the most exacting scenes. 
 He looked on at the making of the properties, the 
 arrangement of the lights and the building of the 
 scenery, and every morning and evening he searched 
 eagerly for the preliminary notices as they gradually 
 crept into the newspapers. Every afternoon he took 
 a late train to Pleasant Harbor, and once there it was 
 necessary to tell Kerrigan all that had taken place at 
 rehearsal, what every one had said and done, and 
 what he thought every one had thought of his or her 
 lines and the play. And then after dinner they worked 
 on the changes which Bronson thought necessary. 
 Kerrigan sat at his desk and made notes, and Field- 
 ing stalked about the floor, and by reading the old 
 lines and the new tried to show how it would appear 
 on the stage. Sometimes they worked for an hour or 
 
 66
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 two and sometimes until far into the morning. Sev- 
 eral times they had written and talked until the sun 
 rose, and it really seemed hardly worth while for 
 Fielding to go to bed at all, so little time remained 
 before his breakfast and the early train to town. 
 And through all this there was always the thought 
 of the girl who had come into his life, with her clear, 
 clean mind and her flower-like beauty, and who had 
 dragged him out of the mental rut of indifference 
 and indolence into which he had gradually fallen. 
 And with the picture of the girl in his mind and the 
 gratitude in his heart for all he owed her, there was 
 always that other thought the thought that he was 
 not the real " John Ferguson," that he was deceiving 
 her. It may have been a deception inspired by gen- 
 erosity Kerrigan had called it a sacrifice but 
 whatever Fielding had won from the girl he had won 
 under false colors, and he knew it and suffered for it. 
 The dress rehearsal was to take place on the 
 Sunday night preceding the first performance, and 
 Fielding had gone down to pass the early part of the 
 day at Pleasant Harbor. They had spent the morning 
 together going over the newspapers and cutting out 
 
 67
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the notices from the amusement columns. "We had 
 better save these," Kerrigan said, laughing. "We may 
 never get any more for our scrap-book!" 
 
 "I don't know I don't know," Fielding said, 
 stopping in his tramp up and down the room. "I'm 
 terribly confused. Sometimes I think it is going to be 
 a great success, and then something goes wrong at re- 
 hearsal and it all seems hopeless. If it weren't for 
 Miss Emery not only for her performance but she 
 does so much to encourage me and keep me going, 
 and helps me so in secretly showing me how to help 
 the others. It is just intelligence against a bag of 
 tricks. She comes with a new brain, fresh and clear, 
 while the heads of the rest of them are filled with a 
 thousand parts they have played or wanted to play, 
 and overburdened with every old tradition of the 
 stage from Shakespeare down to Belasco. As Bron- 
 son said to me the other day after Ruth's scene in the 
 first act, ' It will be such a pity when that girl learns 
 how to act.' I tell you, Kerry, you don't know what 
 she has done for that play of yours ! " 
 
 Kerrigan was looking up at the girl's photograph 
 over the mirror. "Yes," he said slowly, " I think I do, 
 
 68
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 and when it's all over I want you to thank her for 
 me, whether the play is a success or a failure thank 
 her as I would have thanked her." 
 
 The audience that filled the theatre on the first 
 night of "The Interpreter" was, in all ways, worthy 
 of Miss Carew's position as an actress and the repu- 
 tation of the players with whom Bronson had sur- 
 rounded her. At the end of the first act the men in the 
 lobbies and those who remained to visit their friends 
 in the orchestra stalls and the boxes agreed that Mr. 
 John Ferguson, whoever he might be, had appar- 
 ently written a fine play, that Miss Carew was at her 
 best and that Miss Ruth Emery was a distinct "find " 
 for Bronson, the manager. When the curtain came 
 down on the "big" scene in the second act, the play 
 had, beyond question, scored a success and Miss 
 Emery little less than a triumph. There were many 
 curtain calls and the proper acknowledgment from 
 the company, and mingled with the applause there 
 were distinct and evidently sincere calls for the 
 author. But to these calls there was no acknowl- 
 edgment, for the author was at the time huddled in 
 
 69
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the back of a closed carriage driving along a heavy, 
 sandy road down by the Natasqua River, and the 
 man who had for the past few weeks acted the part 
 of the author was sitting, very cold and very nervous, 
 in the last row of the balcony. 
 
 The telegraph station at Pleasant Harbor closed 
 at eight o'clock in the evening, and so when it was 
 all over, there was nothing for Fielding to do but 
 wait for the morning to tell Kerrigan that "The In- 
 terpreter" had achieved a real success. Miss Carew 
 and Bronson had never doubted that the critics 
 would approve of it, and in this their judgment was 
 correct. Some of them even went so far as to say that 
 if Mr. Ferguson had not written the great American 
 play, there was no reason to believe that he might 
 not eventually do so. They also were profuse in their 
 gratitude to Bronson for daring to introduce this new 
 American author, and loud in their praise of Miss 
 Carew for appearing in a play in which she, at best, 
 could but share the honors with another and un- 
 known actress. But the success of the play was not 
 alone confined to the men who wrote the reviews and 
 to whom technique and the literary quality count for 
 
 70
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 so much. The human note that had appealed to Miss 
 Carew so strongly found its way over the footlights 
 to the great theatre-going public, and the public 
 showed its appreciation by going to see "The Inter- 
 preter" for many months, not only in New York, but 
 all over the country. 
 
 When the play was over that first night, and the 
 theatre was empty, Fielding went down on the stage 
 and visited the different members of the company in 
 their dressing-rooms, and thanked them for all the 
 hard work they had done and the help they had been 
 to the play. He had arranged, long before that night, 
 that Miss Emery and he were to take supper together 
 and talk it all over, but the excitement of her success 
 had told on the girl, and instead of going to supper, 
 she asked that he would take her for a drive so that 
 she could be in the open air. They took a hansom 
 and drove up Fifth Avenue out to the park, which at 
 that hour and at that season of the year was quite 
 deserted. It was a fine clear night, fairly warm for so 
 late in October, and as they jogged along over the 
 smooth roads, the girl leaned out over the doors and 
 drank in long breaths of the clear night air. Fielding 
 
 71
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 sat back in the hansom and looked at the girl's profile, 
 at the full rounded throat and at the soft brown hair 
 brushed back over the delicately moulded ear. She 
 was the one woman who had ever meant very much 
 to him and she meant everything the woman who 
 had filled his mind and his heart every hour of every 
 day since he had first known her. He put out his hand 
 and laid it on hers. 
 
 "I never knew what happiness really meant be- 
 fore," he said. 
 
 "That must mean a good deal especially to you 
 to be really happy." 
 
 "Why especially to me?" he asked. 
 
 The girl was looking out ahead of her, at the wind- 
 ing road and at the rows of dark leafless trees that 
 lined their path. "Oh, I don't know exactly, except 
 the man who wrote 'The Interpreter' could not al- 
 ways have been very happy." 
 
 There was a silence for a moment and then Field- 
 ing spoke quite evenly and almost without in- 
 flection 
 
 "I didn't write 'The Interpreter,' " he said. "No, I 
 did not write 'The Interpreter.'" 
 
 72
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 The girl turned and looked at him and his eyes 
 met her glance fairly. Then she turned back to her 
 former position, her arms resting on the doors of the 
 hansom. 
 
 "Do you care for me," he asked, "or do you care 
 for the author of the play ?" It was the first time he 
 had ever spoken of either of them caring for any one. 
 
 The girl put up one hand and pressed it gently 
 across her eyes. "I don't quite know who did write 
 'The Interpreter?'" 
 
 "A friend of mine named Kerrigan. He's a cripple. 
 When he was younger only a year or so ago he 
 was very strong and very good-looking. They called 
 him 'Beauty' Kerrigan in those days. He was hurt 
 trying to get some children out of a burning building 
 and afterward he chose to live like a hermit. He 
 doesn't exist except for me." 
 
 "Couldn't I see him?" she asked. "I owe him a 
 great deal. I'd like to say 'thank you' to him." 
 
 "I don't know I don't know that," he said. 
 "You see I promised I never would tell, and I've 
 broken my promise. I never would have told any 
 one except you to-night." 
 
 73
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 They drove back in silence, and Fielding left her 
 at her boarding-house, and then went on to his own 
 room and waited until it was time to go to Pleasant 
 Harbor. The first train started while the stars were 
 still shining and the sun was not long up when he 
 reached his destination. Kerrigan had not expected 
 him until the first morning express train, which ar- 
 rived some time after the slow local Fielding had 
 decided to take at the last moment. There was no 
 one at the station to meet him and so he started to 
 walk to the farm, shortening his journey by tramping 
 through the fields, still wet with dew and heavy with 
 the scent of wild flowers. 
 
 When he reached the white farmhouse he softly 
 opened the door, believing that Kerrigan was still 
 asleep. But he found him standing in the sitting- 
 room, looking tired and worn as if he, too, had had a 
 bad night. He was leaning against the side of the 
 fireplace and looking at the picture of Ruth Emery, 
 which he held between his two scarred hands. When 
 he heard Fielding he looked up and then slowly put 
 the photograph back in its place. 
 
 "Well? "he asked. 
 
 74
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 Fielding threw a bundle of the morning papers 
 on the desk. "It's fine, Kerry!" he said. "It's a big 
 hit and the papers say your work is wonderful! 
 Bronson and Miss Carew and every one were de- 
 lighted absolutely satisfied." 
 
 And then the two men sat down before the fire, 
 and Fielding read each notice aloud several times 
 and told Kerrigan everything that had happened, 
 from the rise of the first to the fall of the last curtain 
 and afterward. He told him, too, of his drive with 
 Miss Emery and of all that he had said to her. 
 
 "You must see her, Kerry," he begged "if it's 
 only for a moment. She feels that she owes you so 
 much." 
 
 And so, although Kerrigan had not seen nor spoken 
 to a girl since the day of the fire, it was arranged be- 
 fore Fielding went back to town the next day that he 
 was to return on Sunday and bring Miss Emery with 
 him. 
 
 It was on a brilliant November morning that they 
 arrived at the little station and found Ferguson 
 waiting for them. A fresh breeze blew in over the 
 water and there was a sharp tang in the air that 
 
 75
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 gave warning of the coming winter and started the 
 blood tingling in their veins. When they reached the 
 white farmhouse Fielding opened the door into Ker- 
 rigan's sitting-room and Ruth Emery went in to meet 
 her host. Every curtain had been pulled aside, every 
 shade had been raised so that the place was flooded 
 with sunlight. In the golden haze they found Kerri- 
 gan standing in the centre of the room leaning on his 
 cane and waiting. The girl moved quickly across the 
 room with her hand outstretched toward him. Kerri- 
 gan tried to stand very erect, but at the touch of her 
 hand he crumpled up and she put her arms about 
 him as if he had been a child. Fielding closed the 
 door softly behind him and walked around the house 
 and over the meadow to the river. When he had 
 reached the pier he got into the cat-boat and quite 
 mechanically hoisted the sail, and casting off went 
 sailing away down the little river. 
 
 Those of us who follow the drama most closely 
 believe that the marriage of Ruth Emery deprived 
 the stage of a very exceptional emotional actress, 
 but if she shares this belief, she has certainly never 
 
 76
 
 'BEAUTY' KERRIGAN 
 
 been known to have expressed it. Fielding fell back 
 into his old easy-going and always lovable ways, and 
 is still a valued member of the paper that first em- 
 ployed him. Kerrigan writes plays now and signs 
 them, too, and this with his stories and a novel or two 
 has made him a prosperous and distinguished gen- 
 tleman. For two years after his marriage he lived 
 on, almost as much of a recluse as he had before that 
 time. But now he frequently drives into town at the 
 side of his very beautiful wife, and while she pur- 
 chases the necessities of the household, he remains 
 outside in the carriage and passes the time of day 
 with the good people of the village. Almost every day 
 now, when the weather is fine, you can see him sit- 
 ting on his porch or on a bench on the lawn watching 
 a little child tumble about in a perfectly laudable 
 effort to walk by itself. They say at Pleasant Harbor 
 that it was the boy that brought Kerrigan out again 
 into the sunshine and the company of his fellow men. 
 But, as Fielding expresses it, as long as it was a child 
 that took him out of the world for those miserable 
 years it was only right, after all, that a child should 
 lead him back again. 
 
 77
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 IHE two men were seated in their new revolving 
 chairs before two new mahogany desks in the new 
 offices of the new theatrical firm of Henning & Con- 
 away. Jacob Henning had spent the better part of his 
 fifty years in accumulating great sums of money, by 
 transforming rawhide into shoe leather; but now, 
 having reached his years of indiscretion, he had 
 planned to risk a portion of his fortune in the un- 
 certainties of the theatrical business. 
 
 Personally he was a large silent man, who was not 
 so keenly interested to make money in the new busi- 
 ness as he was to view at close range the fleshpots 
 of Broadway, and to have the name of Henning 
 known beyond the somewhat narrow confines of the 
 leather trade. He had chosen Walter Conaway as his 
 partner, because in theatrical affairs the young man 
 had already shown some accomplishment and much 
 
 81
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 promise. Conaway had formerly been an advance 
 agent, and he therefore believed that silence was any- 
 thing but golden. 
 
 "You may be a very rich man, Mr. Henning," 
 said the young manager. "I know money will buy 
 many things; but the hardest thing you ever tried to 
 buy in your life is a laugh." 
 
 Henning bit a little deeper into his cigar and 
 nodded his smooth moon face at his associate mana- 
 ger to continue. 
 
 "I can get you show girls and a working chorus 
 by opening that particularly dusty window over 
 there, that opens on Broadway, and then whistling 
 twice. You know how easy it was to buy a good book, 
 as far as plot goes, and if it isn't right we can buy a 
 couple of play carpenters for a shade under union 
 rates. There are as many song hits lying on the music 
 publishers' shelves on Twenty-eighth street as there 
 are tacks in a tack factory that's working night 
 shifts ; but I tell you music and girls and a plot never 
 yet spelled success for a musical show on Broadway. 
 What we want are comedians, comedians that we 
 can loan the stage to for twenty minutes while the 
 
 82
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 girls are changing from an ostrich chorus to a birth 
 of the poppy finale. We want two fellows who bring 
 their own stuff with them and who carry it under 
 their wigs and not on reversible cuffs, men who can 
 ad lib. a scene if the lights go out, or the soprano 
 wants to serve pink tea to her friends in the dress- 
 ing room. And I tell you that kind are hard to get." 
 
 "Somebody gets them," Henning said slowly; 
 "I've seen 'em. I hardly ever go to a theatre that 
 some fellow on the stage doesn't make me laugh. If 
 other people can buy comedians, then why can't 
 we?" 
 
 "For two reasons," the metropolitan manager 
 spoke glibly and with much decision. "All the good 
 ones are tied up with their present managers; and 
 they would be gagged, too, but you see that would 
 interfere with their work. What we have got to do is 
 to discover comedians real comedians, latent gen- 
 iuses, who work for thirty a week in low variety 
 theatres." 
 
 "And then ?" asked Henning. 
 
 "Then?" repeated the manager. "Then we fumi- 
 gate them and their methods, tie them up with yards 
 
 83
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 of red tape and eventually make them Broadway 
 favorites, and ourselves, incidentally, successful 
 managers." 
 
 "Do you know any of these diamonds in coal 
 holes ? " asked Henning a little sceptically. 
 
 The metropolitan manager looked out of the win- 
 dow on the yellow fa9ade of the opera house on the 
 other side of Broadway and then back to the Jap- 
 anese parasol that screened the empty fireplace. 
 Then he placed the tips of his fingers carefully to- 
 gether and looked Henning fairly in the eyes. "I 
 think I do," he said deliberately. "That is why I 
 have tried to make you understand the difficulty of 
 the situation. Their names are Billy Danella and 
 Coccaro the Clown; they're known as 'Coccaro and 
 Danella.' An advance agent tipped them off to me 
 last winter, and I looked them up the other night. 
 They are working down on Eighth Avenue now, and 
 the little one, Danella, is a knock out. He makes 'em 
 scream all the time. Of course, he is very tough, and 
 he will have to be sterilized for Broadway, but he 
 was born comic and has naturally fallen into meth- 
 ods that legitimate actors take a lifetime to learn." 
 
 84
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 "And his partner?" asked Henning. 
 
 Conaway shook his head. "Just a feeder to Dan- 
 ella. He's a big, fine, athletic-looking chap, but he's 
 not funny at all. He worked with Danella in the bur- 
 lesque, but in the olio he did a rather neat turn with 
 a woman. He makes up as a clown and has a trick 
 dog, and she did a contortion specialty. I imagine 
 they are circus people; and they could be of no pos- 
 sible use to us. However, if you say so, we'll go down 
 there this evening and look them over." 
 
 That night the two men sat in the orchestra in the 
 hot, dirty little theatre on Eighth Avenue. Through 
 the fumes of ill-smelling tobacco smoke the low 
 comedy work of Danella shone like a revolving light 
 on a misty night. Every time he came on the stage, 
 the packed, perspiring audience of many men and a 
 few women laughed uproariously. 
 
 The silent Henning laughed and applauded the 
 loudest of all. "He's immense!" he said, nudging 
 Conaway. "I tell you he's great just the fellow for 
 the Mogul in our show ! " 
 
 After the performance was over they stopped at 
 the manager's office. 
 
 85
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Bob Jumel's my name, gentlemen," said the 
 manager. "What can I do for you? Come in and 
 take a seat." He was a short, thick-set man in shirt 
 sleeves. A high silk hat was stuck on the back of his 
 head, a half-smoked cigar hung down from heavy 
 lips, and a great deal of cheap jewelry pinned to his 
 waistcoat proved his membership in many secret 
 orders. 
 
 "I wanted to ask you about Coccaro and Dan- 
 ella," said Conaway. 
 
 "I supposed that was it when I saw you in front. 
 You're not the first that's been looking them over." 
 He smiled genially at Conaway. 
 
 "Mr. Henning and I," said the Broadway man- 
 ager, "are putting on a big extravaganza this sum- 
 mer, and we had a part we thought might suit Dan- 
 ella. Do you think you could let us have him? It 
 would be a big chance. We are going to spend forty 
 thousand dollars in real money, and we have all the 
 time we want in the best theatre for a summer show 
 on Broadway." 
 
 Jumel shifted his cigar to the other side of his 
 mouth, put his feet on the desk in front of him, and 
 86
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 for some moments gazed up at a dusty cobweb in the 
 corner of the ceiling. "Of course, it's a good chance 
 for the boys," he said. "I know that, and I know it's 
 got to come some day; but you see they always work 
 for me in the summer. I have a bit in a one-ring circus 
 that plays through Western Pennsylvania and Ohio 
 one-night stands, and the boys and Marzetta (that's 
 Coccaro's wife you saw work with him in the first 
 part) are about the best assets we've got. Both the 
 boys clown for me with the circus, and they're great. 
 I don't want to be no dog in the manger, but you 
 know comedians are awful scarce. If they weren't, 
 you wouldn't be looking for them down on Eighth 
 Avenue." 
 
 "We're willing to pay a good bonus," suggested 
 Conaway. 
 
 Jumel nodded. "Of course, I understand that. 
 You'd have to pay them Broadway salaries, and I 
 could get my bit out of that." 
 
 "As a matter of fact, Mr. Jumel," Conaway said, 
 "we really could get along without Coccaro; it's the 
 little fellow we want. What do you think ?" 
 
 "No," said Jumel abruptly, "it wouldn't do at 
 87
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 all. Those boys have worked together for fifteen 
 years. I know just how you feel about it; it's one of 
 the oldest stories in the business; it's been the same 
 with every team from Booth and Barrett to Mclntyre 
 and Heath. There's a weak end to every sketch; but 
 you can't pry those kind of people apart with a crow- 
 bar. It's Coccaro and Danella or nothing. What 
 would you give for the team ? " 
 
 Conaway glanced at Henning, but the latter was 
 apparently absorbed in a large fly-specked calendar 
 over the manager's desk. "I don't want to haggle," 
 said Conaway, "and I do want Danella. I'll give you 
 two hundred a week for the team, and guarantee 
 you eight weeks. If they don't make good, you can 
 take them back and I'll make up the difference in 
 salary." 
 
 "They'll make good all right," said Jumel. "I'll 
 take two and a half." 
 
 Conaway again looked at his backer, and this time 
 caught his eye. Henning shrugged his shoulders in 
 assent. 
 
 "It's a pretty stiff price," Conaway said; "but if 
 Mr. Henning is willing " The three men rose and 
 
 88
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 shook hands. "You had better bring them into the 
 office to-morrow morning before lunch, and I'll have 
 the contracts ready. Good-night, Mr. Jumel." 
 
 The four friends sat about a table in a back room 
 of the saloon across the way from the theatre. There 
 was Jumel still chewing the same unlit cigar; Jim 
 Coccaro, broad and big, with the pink and white 
 skin and the clear eye of the conditioned athlete; 
 Billy Danella, small, pug nosed, ears that stood out 
 at right angles to his blue, close-shaven face, a slit 
 where his mouth should have been, and beady eyes 
 that forever shifted and twinkled. The fourth mem- 
 ber of the party was Marzetta the Contortionist, or, 
 as she was known in her home life, Mrs. Jim Coccaro. 
 
 When Jumel had indulged in the most unusual 
 occurrence of ordering a bottle of champagne, and 
 after the waiter had left the room, he told the three 
 members of his company of the wonderful fortune 
 that had befallen them. 
 
 Danella's eyes blinked and shifted quickly from 
 one to the other of the party. "I knew it would 
 come!" he said, hitting the table fiercely with his 
 
 89
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 closed fist. "It had to come! We've worked for it and 
 we deserve it. They've been stealing my stuff for 
 years; but I'll show 'em now I'll show those 
 Broadway robbers ! " 
 
 Under the table Marzetta put her hand on her 
 husband's knee and gently pressed it. They looked 
 into each other's eyes and smiled with a thorough 
 understanding. 
 
 To Danella this new prosperity meant not only 
 money but a kind of fame, an acknowledgment of 
 his comic powers, and from a public he had never 
 even dared to hope that he would know. But to Coc- 
 caro and his wife it meant money, and money meant 
 the power to break away from the theatre and the 
 circus forever. Since the day of their marriage they 
 had saved their pennies with the one thought before 
 them of a farm all of their own where they would 
 never again see chalk or grease paint or smell the 
 damp sawdust under their feet. But until now the 
 goal had seemed a very long way off. As soon as it 
 was possible, they slipped away to their boarding 
 house to talk over their happiness alone, and left 
 Danella and Jumel still drinking and harking back 
 
 90
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 to old scenes and bits of business which could be used 
 effectively in the new play. It was early morning 
 when the two men parted, Jumel silent, but Danella 
 raving jubilantly over the sudden turn in his fortunes. 
 
 The next day at noon Coccaro, Danella, and Ju- 
 mel met Conaway and Henning at the offices of the 
 new management. The printed contracts, already 
 filled in, lay on the desk, and Conaway, smiling, 
 asked Danella if he would sign first. 
 
 The comedian took up the contract and, leaning 
 leisurely against the desk, turned to the first page. 
 "It says here," he said slowly, "that this contract is 
 with the team Coccaro and Danella." 
 
 Conaway smiled again and nodded. 
 
 "That," continued Danella in the same deliberate 
 tone, "is a mistake. The only contract I sign is for 
 two hundred and fifty dollars for the services of Billy 
 Danella. I have no partner we quit last night." 
 
 Conaway turned toward Coccaro and Jumel, but 
 the two men were looking at Danella in blank amaze- 
 ment. It was the clown who broke the silence. 
 
 "Why, Billy," he said very gently, "I don't un- 
 derstand. We've always signed as Coccaro and 
 
 91
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Danella. You don't mean surely that " He did not 
 end the sentence, but put out his hand toward his 
 old partner. 
 
 Danella folded his arms and leaned farther back 
 against the desk. "Yes, that's what I mean," he said 
 "just that. For fifteen years I've supported you. 
 I wrote your stuff, every line of it, and I taught you 
 how to hand it to them. For fifteen years I have kept 
 you and your wife alive. Everything you ate, every 
 stitch of clothes on your backs, you owe to me. It was 
 I who got the laughs, and just because we had been 
 kids together I was easy and gave you half the money. 
 Ask Jumel there, ask any stage hand who ever saw 
 us work, how long you would have lasted without 
 me. But that's over and done with now. You can 
 sign in this company or you can go back to doing 
 tricks with your poodle, Mr. Coccaro the Clown, and 
 your wife can go on doing splits and drinking tum- 
 blers of water while she's twisted into a bow-knot; 
 but you can't sign any more papers as Coccaro and 
 Danella. I'm plain Billy Danella after this Billy 
 Danella, Comedian." 
 
 Henning, who had been sitting silent in a corner, 
 92
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 started forward, but his partner motioned him back. 
 Conaway knew that Danella must be signed at any 
 price. Throughout the long speech Coccaro had 
 looked Danella evenly in the eyes, and now that his 
 old partner had finished, he continued for some mo- 
 ments to do so still. At last he nodded as if in accept- 
 ance of the new arrangement. 
 
 "All right, Billy," he said "all right, if that's the 
 way you feel about it." He started to leave the room, 
 but as he reached the door he turned once more to 
 his former partner. "It's a long time we've been to- 
 gether a long time is fifteen years, Billy." 
 
 Danella, with folded arms and drawn lips, looked 
 stolidly at the wall before him. For a moment Coc- 
 caro hesitated. "It seems, gentlemen," he said at 
 last, "that Danella and I can't do business any longer 
 together. If you should still want me, Mr. Jumel 
 knows where I stop in town. Good-day to you all." 
 
 During the next two days the two men signed 
 separate contracts; Danella for the sum he de- 
 manded, and his former partner for just one-fifth of 
 that amount. Indeed, if it had not been for the large 
 heart of Henning and the strong appeal of Jumel, 
 
 93
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Coccaro would have had to return to his old place in 
 the circus. But if the life in town was a little easier 
 for the clown and his wife, their finances had been 
 scarcely bettered, and the goal of their wishes was 
 just as far beyond their reach as ever. 
 
 When the production was completed and the last 
 dress rehearsals were over, "The Mighty Mogul" 
 company, a hundred strong, boarded a special train 
 one bright Sunday afternoon in May and crept 
 slowly out of the Grand Central Station. Its destina- 
 tion was a small New England town where the stage 
 was large and where there was plenty of space for 
 the carpenters and stage hands and electricians to 
 become accustomed to the new material. 
 
 Unheralded, unknown, in the presence of a few 
 New England citizens and half a dozen New York 
 managers, "The Mighty Mogul" was finally born. 
 After it was all over it seemed as if, besides the New 
 England citizens and the New York managers, most 
 of the good fairies must have been sitting about 
 somewhere in the theatre, for they had certainly left 
 their best gifts with the new monarch. The towns- 
 
 94
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 people came in great numbers to see the play the 
 following night; but long before that the news had 
 reached the shady side of Broadway, and from 
 Thirty-sixth Street to Forty-second Street the actors 
 acclaimed it aloud, and just above the sidewalk the 
 managers sat in their stuffy offices and chewed their 
 cigars and wondered if it could be true. 
 
 It hardly seemed possible that Walter Conaway 
 ("the boy manager," he was called) had built up a 
 production that the wisest of the old guard of man- 
 agers admitted was ten years ahead of its time. It had 
 color and speed and novelty, at least so rumor said, 
 and behind it all there was evident the money un- 
 limited and the intelligence and the discretion of a 
 new power. And there were wonderful tales, too, of 
 a new comedian, one William Danella, who had a 
 method all of his own, and who would make the first- 
 night audience in New York sit up and take notice 
 as it had not done in many seasons. 
 
 It was five o'clock the following Monday afternoon 
 when Henning and Conaway left the theatre on 
 Broadway and stood for a moment on the sidewalk 
 looking up at the electric sign over the entrance. 
 
 95
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Their work was over, and it was up to the actors and 
 the head carpenter. 
 
 "Well, I guess it'll be all right," Henning said. 
 "There's nothing else we can do, I suppose ?" 
 
 Conaway laid his hand affectionately on his back- 
 er's arm. "Not a thing, Mr. Henning, not a thing; 
 that is, except to step aside and see the limited pass. 
 I told you we'd sneak away in silence and come back 
 with bells on." 
 
 It was the call boy, who, while on his half-hour 
 round, discovered that Danella was not in his dress- 
 ing-room. A few minutes later the men and women 
 who had already taken their seats in the theatre were 
 surprised to see a man in his shirt sleeves, collarless, 
 and with disheveled hair, run through the audito- 
 rium, and almost immediately run back again fol- 
 lowed by two men in immaculate evening dress. 
 Henning, Conaway, and the stage manager instinct- 
 ively crossed the darkened stage in the direction of 
 the entrance leading from the street. In the narrow 
 hallway, just inside the stage door, they found Jumel 
 dressed in ill-fitting, conspicuously new evening 
 
 96
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 clothes, a great diamond in his shirt front. He was 
 leaning dejectedly against the wall, his hands stuck 
 deep in his pockets. 
 
 "Well," said Conaway, trying to keep himself in 
 hand. "Do you think he may come yet?" 
 
 Jumel shook his head. "Hardly now, I should 
 think. He always gets in by seven." 
 
 "When did you see him last ?" 
 
 "I left him at a cafe across the street last night 
 after the rehearsal." 
 
 "Don't you think we had better send up to his 
 house?" suggested Henning. 
 
 "I've done that," answered Jumel; "but it's no 
 use. He never goes home when he's like that." 
 
 Conaway turned white, and his teeth came sharply 
 together. "So that's it, is it?" 
 
 Jumel nodded. "I guess that's it," he said. 
 
 "And so you sold us a gold brick; did you ?" 
 
 Jumel did not answer. 
 
 "It seems to me, Jumel, we treated you fairly," 
 Conaway snapped at him. "Why didn't you tell us ?" 
 
 "How was I to know? He doesn't often go on a 
 spree, and who would think he would fall down at a 
 
 97
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 time like this ? He was scared, that's all. The job was 
 too big for him." 
 
 Henning stood solemnly by rolling an unlit cigar 
 between his lips. "Just practically what does it 
 mean?" he asked. 
 
 "It means we can't open," said Conaway. "It 
 means we come in here with a big success and have 
 to keep the house dark and risk forty thousand 
 dollars, all on account of a variety actor." 
 
 "How about to-morrow?" asked Henning. 
 
 "That wouldn't do. There's a big syndicate open- 
 ing and we'd get the second critics." 
 
 "It will have to be Wednesday, then ?" 
 
 "Who knows?" answered Conaway despond- 
 ently. "There's no telling when he will be back." 
 
 Henning took the cigar out of his mouth and 
 licked the end carefully with his tongue. "I don't 
 care so much about the money," he said slowly. "It 
 really isn't that, but I have never had a failure in 
 business before, and it hurts a good deal. Everything 
 looked so well half an hour ago, too. It doesn't really 
 seem fair, somehow. Of course, there's no one else 
 we could put in; is there?" 
 
 98
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 Conaway and the stage manager looked at each 
 other and shook their heads. 
 
 "There's been no time to get up understudies," 
 Conaway explained. "A week later it would have 
 been different." 
 
 "There's just one thing you can do," said Jumel, 
 "and you've got an even chance to win out. Put 
 Coccaro in the part." 
 
 Conaway looked at Jumel and laughed. "Jumel, 
 I think you must be crazy. Coccaro never got a laugh 
 in his life and you know it." 
 
 "Yes, he did," answered Jumel. "He's got 'em 
 many times just like this, when Danella was off. 
 He's no comedian, but he can give an imitation of 
 the boy that would fool Danella's own mother; that 
 is, if she kept her eyes shut." 
 
 "Oh, what's. the use? He doesn't know the lines, 
 anyhow," and Conaway turned away. 
 
 "I'll bet he does," said Jumel. "Didn't you notice 
 how he stood at the wings always watching Danella. 
 He's done that for years. I tell you it's a habit with 
 him. You mayn't think he's as good as Danella, but 
 the audience don't know."
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Conaway turned to Henning. "Well," he said, 
 "it's up to you, Mr. Henning. It looks like a long 
 chance to me, even if he's up in the part." 
 
 Henning looked from one to the other of the faces 
 of the three men. For a moment he hesitated. "I 
 think I'd take a chance," he said. 
 
 "Who'll play Coccaro's part?" asked Conaway. 
 
 "That's all right," said the stage manager. "I can 
 do that easy." 
 
 "All right," Conaway answered. "And now, 
 Jumel, it's up to you." 
 
 As he finished the sentence Jumel started on a 
 run for Coccaro's dressing-room. 
 
 Half an hour later Henning and Conaway were 
 standing on the stage when Jumel, hot, perspiring, 
 coatless, collarless, his suspenders tied about his 
 waist, came out of the star's dressing-room. 
 
 "It's all right," he said "it's all right. Marzetta 
 has got Danella's part, and she'll stand on the O. P. 
 side, and I'll take the book on the prompt side when 
 Coccaro is on. You can ring in now. We'll be all 
 ready, sure. And you two had better stay in front; it 
 would make the boy nervous to have you back 
 100
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 here." And Jumel dashed back again to the dressing- 
 room. 
 
 Conaway pulled out his watch. "Eight-twenty," 
 he said. "We'll practically ring up on time. It's 
 pretty lucky; that is, if " He smiled, and taking 
 Henning by the arm led him off the stage and around 
 back of the boxes to the front of the theatre. 
 
 During the performance the two men hung over 
 the plush balustrade at the back of the parquet as if 
 it had been the rail of a wrecked vessel. 
 
 "It don't seem possible," whispered Conaway. 
 "It's the most wonderful imitation I ever saw." 
 
 Scene after scene Coccaro continued to read his 
 lines, sing the songs, and do the dances. Compared 
 to Danella, it was a little colorless, and the unction 
 was not there; but, as Jumel said, "the audience 
 didn't know." The play ran smoothly through its 
 course, and the last curtain fell on a triumph for the 
 new management. Henning and Conaway walked 
 out to the lobby to receive the congratulations of their 
 friends ; but the word that they heard most often was 
 the name of their new comedian Danella. The next 
 morning the critics agreed that " The Mighty Mogul " 
 101
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 had come to stay, and that one William Danella had 
 secured a lasting place for himself in the brilliant 
 firmament of Broadway stars. 
 
 Nothing was heard from Danella the next day, 
 but late Wednesday evening Henning received a 
 note from him. He and Conaway were sitting in the 
 box office, happy and contented, and smiling at the 
 empty ticket rack. Henning tossed the letter to his 
 partner. 
 
 "All right," said Conaway when he had finished 
 reading it; "but he might have given us a little more 
 notice if he wants to go on to-night. I'll see him when 
 he comes in." 
 
 "Will you let him play the part to-night?" asked 
 Henning. 
 
 "Sure; that is, if he's all right. Why ?" 
 
 Henning puffed slowly on his cigar. "Oh, I don't 
 know. I suppose I'm new at the business, but it 
 seems sort of hard on the other fellow to me. Don't 
 you think we could keep him on ? " 
 
 Conaway smiled and shook his head. "We've got 
 Danella under contract for five years, and that 
 means that he must create five parts. He'll have to 
 102
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 give Coccaro half his salary for the two nights, any- 
 how, and I don't think we ought to ask him to go 
 back to his old part to-night. Besides, he doesn't seem 
 to care to act wants to be a farmer. Told me he was 
 trying to buy a place up Connecticut way. Funny for 
 a performer, eh ? At that, I'm not very keen to tell 
 him that Danella's going on to-night." 
 
 "Don't you mind," Henning said; "I think I'll see 
 him myself." 
 
 He found Coccaro in the star's room. The clown 
 was seated at his dressing table, slowly making up 
 for the principal part. Henning sat down on a trunk 
 in the corner of the room and cleared his throat. 
 
 "Mr. Coccaro," he began, "it seems Danella is 
 coming back to-night and wants to go on." 
 
 Coccaro nodded and dropped the stick of grease 
 paint he had been holding. 
 
 "We thought," Henning went on, "that you 
 would like a night or two off, and so you needn't 
 play your regular part to-night." 
 
 "If you don't mind," said Coccaro, "and it doesn't 
 inconvenience you too much, I don't think I'll ever 
 play that part again. I couldn't very well after after 
 103
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 what's happened. Jumel says I and my wife can go 
 back to the circus." 
 
 For some moments Henning sat silent, swinging 
 his short fat legs against the trunk. " It's a little hard 
 to explain to you, Mr. Coccaro," he began. "I am 
 not a man of words, and I find it difficult to say just 
 what I mean." 
 
 Coccaro turned and smiled pleasantly at the man- 
 ager. "Don't try, Mr. Henning," he said. "I know 
 what you want to say." 
 
 "Perhaps you do and perhaps you don't. It 
 wasn't the money, Mr. Coccaro. I have a great deal 
 of that, more than I can spend. But it was my posi- 
 tion. You saved me from appearing ridiculous to my 
 old business friends, and your work that night turned 
 disaster into a great success. I should like to do some- 
 thing for you that you and your wife would remem- 
 ber. Have you got a pen about here ?" 
 
 "There's one over there on that table," he said. 
 "I have been writing some autographs for Danella; 
 but don't think I'll forget that first night, Mr. Hen- 
 ning. I'll remember that all my life." 
 
 Henning took a blank check from his pocket book, 
 104
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 filled it out, folded it, and handed it to Coccaro. "The 
 receipts for the first two nights of the piece," he said, 
 "were thirty-six hundred and two dollars and sev- 
 enty-five cents. It seems to me, by all rights, they be- 
 long to you; and that'll go some distance, anyhow, 
 toward that farm of yours." 
 
 Coccaro slowly rose to his feet protesting and held 
 out his hand with the check in it. 
 
 "No, don't you be foolish," said Henning. "I've 
 got a farm myself I don't know how many hundred 
 acres; but there's one little spot on it where I grow 
 corn. I'll send you some of the seeds next October. 
 I tell you it's the greatest corn in the world!" And 
 Henning closed the door hurriedly behind him. 
 
 A few minutes later Danella came into the dress- 
 ing-room: the two men nodded to each other and 
 Danella took his place at the dressing table and be- 
 gan to make up. 
 
 It was after Coccaro had put on his clothes and 
 was ready for the street that Danella broke the long 
 silence. He spoke looking straight ahead into the 
 mirror, and his voice sounded curiously even and 
 almost without meaning. 
 
 105
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 " I read in the papers that you made a great hit in 
 the part. There's no good in my saying anything now; 
 it's too late. But I'm much obliged. I'm sorry you've 
 got to go back to that part." 
 
 Coccaro took his hat from a peg. "I'm not going 
 back to the part," he said. 
 
 Danella continued to look at the mirror and to 
 draw a stick of grease paint mechanically across his 
 forehead. "Not going back?" 
 
 "No, and I'm not going back to the circus." 
 Coccaro stopped on his way to the door and carefully 
 traced out one of the patterns on the carpet with his 
 walking stick. "No; I'm going to the farm. I've got 
 it at last." 
 
 Danella dropped the grease paint, and without 
 taking his eyes from the face in the mirror rested his 
 chin between the palms of his hands. From outside 
 there came the noise of many hurrying feet and the cry 
 of the call boy, "Five minutes! Everybody on for the 
 first act!" 
 
 Coccaro crossed over to the door, and then turned 
 back with his hand on the knob. "According to the 
 old plan, Bill, you were to have your room always at 
 106
 
 COCCARO THE CLOWN 
 
 the farm. Well, if you ever get tired here and want 
 to rest up a bit, you know the room is there waiting 
 for you always. Marzetta and I wouldn't want any 
 one else to have it." 
 
 For a moment he hesitated for a word from his old 
 partner, but Danella did not answer him. 
 
 " Good-night," said Coccaro, and closed the door 
 behind him. But when he had gone a few steps down 
 the hallway, he returned and softly opening the door 
 again, tiptoed across the room to where Danella lay 
 on the dressing table his arms stretched in front of 
 him, and his head resting between them. Coccaro 
 touched him lightly on the shoulder. "That's all right; 
 that's all right," he whispered. "You must get on 
 your things now. They'll be ringing up on you in a 
 minute. You mustn't take on so. I know how you 
 feel. It's a long time we've been together, Billy, a 
 long time." 
 
 107
 
 "SEDGWICK"
 
 "SEDGWICK" 
 
 fVHEN Sedgwick first came to me, my friends said 
 that I was a fool to take on a servant with such un- 
 satisfactory references, and I suppose now, in a way, 
 that they were right, but I am not quite sure. For 
 three years I had had a man with the somewhat daz- 
 zling name of Tremaine, and a more consistent 
 house-burglar I have never known ; but he was con- 
 sistent. So far as I know, he confined his peculations 
 to jewelry, which I never wore, such as stick-pins 
 and similar junk picked up at weddings and Christ- 
 mases; black and white ties, suitable for evening 
 wear, and Scotch whiskey, but always of inferior 
 brand. I think Tremaine must have had a very 
 common streak in him, for he never touched my 
 really good wines or liquors, and for this I liked him. 
 Every morning at eight o'clock he let himself into 
 111
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 my apartment, laid out my clothes, and prepared my 
 breakfast. At some time during the proceedings I 
 would wake up and say: "How is it outside?" And 
 if it was a bad, blustering, bitter cold day he would 
 answer: "Fine, sir!" and lay out a thin suit, and if 
 it was balmy and spring-like he would shake his head 
 and say: "Pretty bad, sir!" and get out a heavy 
 tweed and a fur overcoat. However, he was just as 
 consistent about this as he was about his robberies; 
 so I always went to the window, looked for myself, 
 and had him make the necessary changes before he 
 left the apartment. 
 
 This had been going on for nearly three years, when 
 I was awakened one morning by the usual soft foot- 
 falls in my room, and I rubbed my eyes, cursed the 
 fact that I was a workingman, and said: "How is it 
 outside?" A strange voice replied: "It's very bad, 
 sir three inches of snow." I looked up and found 
 an entirely unknown man brushing my derby hat. 
 
 "Who the devil are you ?" said I. 
 
 "I'm Sedgwick. Tremaine is sick, and he sent 
 me in his place." 
 
 "Is Tremaine very sick?" I asked. 
 112
 
 " SEDGWICK ' 
 
 The man slowly shook his head and answered 
 in a most lugubrious voice: "Very sick, very sick, 
 sir." 
 
 In two days it seemed as if Sedgwick had been 
 with me always, and at the end of that time he con- 
 fessed that Tremaine, whom he had but recently met 
 at a servants' club, had never been ill at all, and had 
 simply left me for a better place. 
 
 The only reference, therefore, that my new servant 
 had was that of a thief and a man who had deceived 
 me after three years of pretty good treatment. Of 
 his past he told me nothing, and yet there was so 
 much about him that I liked that I was loath to let 
 him go. He was tall, thin, loose-jointed, lantern- 
 jawed, by turns fierce and sad looking, and with that 
 perfect knowledge of his business that only English- 
 men of a certain class ever seem to acquire. He ap- 
 parently took not the slightest interest in me or my 
 affairs, but his honesty was beyond suspicion. How- 
 ever superior this particular kind of servant may 
 hold himself to his master, I have never known one 
 who did not have one weak spot either a family 
 affair or, more often, a former employer whose virt- 
 113
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 lies he always took pleasure in talking about. But 
 it was not so with Sedgwick. He never mentioned 
 a former employer, a place where he had lived, nor an 
 incident which touched on his past life. My friends 
 delighted in him as a servant and a man of mystery, 
 but always pretended to be fearful of leaving me alone 
 with him. They insisted that he would one day 
 probably cut my throat. Personally, I had no such 
 fears, as he seemed to me a rather gentle, middle- 
 aged person, and I had no doubt that concealed 
 somewhere under his grim visage were a sympathetic 
 soul and a heart of gold. To me he was like some 
 thoroughbred bulldogs I have known, with their 
 legs bowed, their eyes glazed, and their big jaws 
 undershot and vicious, but jaws in times of peace that 
 a child could put its hand between without fear of 
 hurt. 
 
 Among the men who occasionally dropped in dur- 
 ing the late afternoon, or the men and women friends 
 who frequently supped at my apartment after the 
 theatre, Sedgwick, apparently, had no favorites, and, 
 what was still more unusual, he regarded the many 
 photographs of the many women friends I had about 
 114
 
 " SEDGWICK ' 
 
 my rooms with absolutely equal favor or, perhaps, 
 it was disfavor. In all my experience with servants, 
 he was the only one who did not have an undisguised 
 admiration for a particular photograph and insist on 
 displaying it to its greatest possible advantage. But 
 none of my beautiful friends seemed to appeal to 
 Sedgwick, and he left them exactly as he had found 
 them in the days of Tremaine or as I had since rear- 
 ranged them according to my changing regard for 
 the originals. 
 
 All of this was true for the first six months of his 
 regime, and then somewhere (I think in the dusty 
 depths of a music-rack) he discovered a photograph 
 which I had forgotten as completely as I had the 
 original. I found it one morning modestly displayed 
 on a corner of the mantel over the fireplace in my sit- 
 ting-room, and for a month in silence I watched it 
 advance in prominence, until it stood side by side 
 with the one photograph that made me regret that I 
 still lived in bachelor apartments instead of a real 
 home. It was a picture faded by time and soiled by 
 ill-usage, never having risen to the dignity of a frame 
 or the protecting care of a glass. When I had known 
 115
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the original, years before, she was a blonde young 
 woman, of Austrian birth, who, with a number of 
 other girls, was studying music at Florence. They 
 all lived in a cheap pension on the old side of the 
 Arno, and were rather amusing and all perfectly se- 
 cure in the belief that one day they would figure 
 prominently among the world's greatest opera sing- 
 ers. This particular young blonde person I had 
 known perhaps a little better than the others, but not 
 much. We had climbed the hill to San Miniato and 
 looked down on the glories of Florence; we had 
 bicycled together through the shaded paths of the 
 Cascine ; side by side we had enjoyed the trolley ride 
 to Fiesole, and lunched vis-a-vis at the Aurora. And 
 one fine moonlight night we had stood together on 
 the balcony of her pension and said au revoir, and 
 when we went back to the little salon, which she 
 shared with several other students, she had written 
 some foolish words in French on a photograph of 
 herself and given me the photograph. Since that 
 day, to the best of my knowledge, I had never seen nor 
 heard of the beautiful blonde Austrian girl, and I 
 must confess that in the years that had elapsed my 
 116
 
 "SEDGWICK ' 
 
 interest in her had faded as rapidly and as surely as 
 had her picture. 
 
 Not until the photograph had reached the highest 
 point of conspicuousness to which it could possibly 
 attain did I pretend to notice its sudden rise among 
 my galaxy of international beauties. 
 
 "Sedgwick," I said one morning, "may I ask why 
 you take so much interest in Miss Rose Parness ? " 
 
 When Sedgwick was thoroughly embarrassed he 
 took on a sort of gray putty color blushing seemed 
 to be an unknown accomplishment to him. On this 
 occasion he turned particularly gray and cast a guilty 
 glance toward the photograph. 
 
 "Cannot even a servant admire a great artist?" 
 he asked. "You know, of course, who Miss Parness 
 is now, sir?" 
 
 "Who who is she?" I stammered. It was with 
 some embarrassment I admitted my lack of knowl- 
 edge, and the ignominy of my ignorance seemed to 
 wellnigh overcome the valet. 
 
 "She is the great singer, Madame Marie Mon- 
 te verde." 
 
 117
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Indeed!" said I, and I raised my eyebrows just 
 as high as I could in polite astonishment. My igno- 
 rance in regard to grand opera and its singers was 
 really shocking, but even I had heard of the beautiful 
 and bewitching Madame Monteverde, who, I under- 
 stood, was the present musical pet of New York. 
 
 "She is a great artist, sir" and his glassy eyes 
 fairly shone "I think the greatest artist in all the 
 world but they have not yet given her the oppor- 
 tunity to prove it in America. Ah, sir, if you could 
 hear her Carmen or her Mimi Santuzza she has 
 already done here perhaps " 
 
 "I fear not I so seldom go to the opera. I knew 
 Miss Rose Parness as a student in Florence." 
 
 "You were fortunate, sir. Is there anything else?" 
 
 In answer I shook my head, and he left me. 
 
 "So that is it," I said to myself, and grinned with 
 pleasure at the fun I should have in telling my friends 
 that Sedgwick, after all, was but human and had an 
 undying affection for no less a person than the new 
 popular soubrette of grand opera. 
 
 The discovery that Madame Monteverde and Rose 
 Parness were one and the same person did not, I 
 118
 
 " SEDGWICK ' 
 
 fear, arouse in me the interest which Sedgwick would 
 have liked. As a matter of fact, the world of opera 
 and the men and women who sing in it are objects of 
 which I know little and care less. The singers and 
 the musicians, their men and women secretaries, 
 their accompanists and the little crowd of music-mad 
 admirers, form a small coterie apart and talk a jargon 
 of which I am wholly ignorant. I had often seen them 
 lunching at a certain French restaurant, and it was 
 amusing enough to watch them pose and strut and 
 chatter together in a dozen different languages; but 
 I was quite satisfied to be but a humble onlooker. 
 Their start, as well as their whole lives, is, after all, 
 founded on an accident of birth. God gives Brother 
 James a husky frame, and he plows the fields for a 
 living; God gives Brother William an extra wide 
 throat, and Brother William makes a fortune every 
 time he makes a moderate use of it. There is nothing 
 traditional or hereditary about an opera singer pro- 
 fessionally, their family tree is a branchless trunk 
 and their crest a larynx rampant. 
 
 Not, however, to appear too indifferent in the eyes 
 of rny servant, I allowed the photograph to remain 
 119
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 where he had put it, and probably never should have 
 thought of it again, had I not received news that my 
 Cousin Muriel was about to pay her annual visit to 
 the great city. 
 
 Of all the relatives and dear friends who drop in 
 on me during the year, Cousin Muriel is the most 
 welcome. All I have to do is to buy opera seats for 
 her and the girl friend with whom she stays, and 
 take them once or twice to the restaurant where the 
 singers eat, so that they can see them at close range. 
 This accomplished, she is perfectly happy, and re- 
 turns to her bucolic home and tells her rustic friends 
 that I am the ideal host and perfect cousin. 
 
 It so happened that while I was reading the letter 
 announcing her early arrival, I happened to glance up 
 and my eye caught sight of the photograph of Rose 
 Parness. It gave me a wonderful inspiration, and I 
 fairly chuckled aloud. I would give a supper party to 
 the friend of my youthful days at Florence, and 
 Cousin Muriel should meet and talk to a real opera 
 singer. Among my friends there was no question 
 that one Howard Danby was the logical choice to 
 arrange the details. Danby was on the staff of an 
 120
 
 '" SEDGWICK " 
 
 evening newspaper and one of my intimates for the 
 half of every year. During these six months he re- 
 ported baseball games and fires and an occasional 
 criminal case; but when the opera season came along 
 he assumed the title of Assistant Musical Editor, let 
 his hair grow over his collar, shook out the camphor 
 balls from his dress-suit, and spent his afternoons at 
 tea with the lady opera singers and his late nights 
 sitting about German restaurants, drinking beer 
 with musical conductors who looked like French 
 barbers, or the male singers who looked like Spanish 
 bull-fighters, and low comedians from the Comedie 
 Fran9aise. According to Danby, the last man I had 
 seen him drinking beer with was always "the great- 
 est tenor" or "the best barytone" or "the last word 
 on Wagner," or, at least, "the husband of the coming 
 only soprano," or "the accompanist of Puccini's own 
 ideal of Madame Butterfly." What I considered 
 operatic geese were all swans to Danby, and for six 
 beautiful months in each year he fairly reveled in the 
 smoke-laden atmosphere of garlic, high C's, and 
 "My interpretation of the role." 
 
 I explained the situation to him, and he was de- 
 121
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 lighted with the commission. Of course, Madame 
 Monteverde must be seen first and reminded of the 
 old days at Florence, and, when her acceptance was 
 gained, Danby assured me that the rest would be 
 easy. A few days after I had first suggested the idea, 
 and just as Cousin Muriel was about to arrive, I re- 
 ceived a letter from Danby, of which this is a copy: 
 
 It's all arranged for Thursday night of next week, at 
 your rooms. Madame Monteverde remembered you per- 
 fectly, and your little affair in the student days, but I think 
 I would call before Thursday, or leave a card, anyhow. 
 Very touchy, these big artists. I have got acceptances from 
 Merkel, who understudies the bass roles; Cossi, a tenor, 
 who will set them crazy if he ever gets the chance; and 
 Count Morgenstern, an Austrian amateur pianist, bon 
 vivant, friend of all the singers, and I think a little epris, 
 just now, with your guest of honor. Besides Madame 
 Monteverde and your cousin, we will have Madame Zurla, 
 a great Senta that is, if they do " The Flying Dutchman" 
 at all this season Madame Czermak, a light contralto, but 
 very chic and pretty, and last, but not least, De Lisle, a 
 great favorite at the Opera Comique in Paris. She is staying 
 here in the hope of getting a chance at " Thai's " or some of 
 the undressed roles. I think, as a party, it is pretty hard to 
 122
 
 '" SEDGWICK " 
 
 beat. Of course, there are a few big names not on the list, 
 but the average I consider high, and your cousin should get 
 a typical glimpse of the great artists at their ease. Au 
 revoir. 
 
 DANBY. 
 
 It seemed to me that there was a very serious lack 
 of "big names" on the list, and that, with the excep- 
 tion of Madame Monteverde, my future guests had 
 a good deal to accomplish before they could be 
 ranked with the truly great. However, I was probably 
 a prejudiced party, and the outlook loomed Bohe- 
 mian enough to at least please Cousin Muriel. 
 
 The great night arrived at last. It was bitterly cold 
 outside, a blustering wind whistled around the cor- 
 ners and the streets lay deep in snow, all of which 
 made my apartment, with the blazing wood fires and 
 warm, heavy hangings, seem all the more cosey and 
 attractive. I had made a point of not telling Sedg- 
 wick who my guests were to be, and was not a little 
 curious to see how he would behave in the actual 
 presence of his divinity. 
 
 Madame Monteverde, in a wonderful spreading 
 123
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 pink hat and a sable coat, which with the collar 
 turned up reached from her eyes to her feet, was the 
 first to arrive. Sedgwick, I am quite sure, did not 
 recognize her when she came in, as, after opening the 
 door, he stood back of the singer, waiting to take her 
 coat. The girl's cheeks were flushed scarlet with the 
 cold, her eyes were shining brilliantly, and there was 
 a smile on her lips as she turned toward him. When 
 he saw her face, his hands, which were held out to 
 take the coat, trembled and his arms dropped slowly 
 to his sides. His sallow face turned grayer than I had 
 ever seen it before, but what interested me the most 
 was that the smile suddenly vanished from the face 
 of Madame Monte verde. For a moment she looked 
 him evenly in the eyes, and then the servant, bowing 
 his head so low that it almost touched his breast, 
 mechanically held out his hands and took the coat. 
 
 It was a curious incident, and I was glad that I had 
 been its only witness. It seemed possible, too, that at 
 last I was to learn something about the past of the 
 melancholy Sedgwick. 
 
 I took Madame Monteverde into the library, pre- 
 sented her to Cousin Muriel, and returned to greet 
 124
 
 " SEDGWICK' ! 
 
 my other guests. They all arrived, looking very 
 much the same the men swathed in greatcoats and 
 yards of silk muffled about their throats, and the 
 women completely concealed in fur wraps. Danby 
 assured me, between arrivals, that I should consider 
 myself extremely lucky that they ever consented to 
 come out on such a night. As a matter of fact, I had 
 been wondering all along why they came at all 
 whether it was that they feared the criticisms of 
 Danby's paper, or whether it was the prospect of a 
 good supper. But once relieved of their outer gar- 
 ments, they seemed to be extremely glad to be where 
 they were, and went about shaking hands both 
 hands at once blowing kisses, clicking their heels, 
 and bowing low to Cousin Muriel, and chattering 
 their happy greetings like a lot of monkeys all at one 
 time and in at least six different languages. 
 
 Madame Czermak whose name I did not pro- 
 nounce twice in the same way during the supper 
 looked rather chic in a very decollete gown, and, as 
 we had no formal singing, it did not matter how light 
 her contralto voice really was; Madame Zurla ap- 
 peared a ponderous person, who talked constantly 
 125
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 of her happy summer home at Siena and of a son 
 who was serving his year in the army; De Lisle was 
 a dashing brunette, powdered quite white, who, when 
 she was not chucking some one under the chin with 
 a somewhat soiled lace fan, smoked a great many 
 cigarettes between courses and after supper drank 
 cup after cup of black coffee. In all ways she seemed 
 worthy of the scandals that cluster about the little 
 opera-house in Paris from which she came. Her con- 
 versation, if no more elevating than that of the other 
 guests, was at least different, for while they talked 
 only of what they sang, she never stopped telling me 
 about her wardrobe, or rather the lack of it. The 
 guest of honor Madame Monteverde I found 
 much changed since the old days at Florence. Al- 
 though still a girl in years, she was a woman now in 
 the ways of the world; the unsought knowledge, the 
 hard work, the grueling effort to overcome the obsta- 
 cles in her way, had etched the telltale lines and 
 shadows on the innocent, pretty face I once knew. 
 Gracious as she was, there was a noticeable trace of 
 the "professional artist" about her, and at times 
 when she assumed an air of diablerie it was hard for 
 126
 
 " SEDGWICK " 
 
 me to believe that this was the girl I had known as a 
 student in the little pension on the wrong side of the 
 Arno. But yet, beneath it all, there was a certain 
 sweet simplicity, a subtle appeal which must have 
 carried across the footlights and which I could well 
 understand had made her the idol that she was. 
 
 So far as the men were concerned, they all looked 
 entirely different from each other, and yet, I am sure, 
 possessed exactly the same insides. Merkel, the bass, 
 had a tremendous frame, a face not unlike that of a 
 horse, and a wonderful shock of tawny hair; Cossi 
 was short and very stout, with glossy black ringlets, 
 and talked as high as he sang; Count Morgenstern, 
 the Austrian, was straight and blonde, with a little 
 yellow mustache turned sharply up at the ends 
 apparently a common type of adventurer on the 
 Continent, with much manner and no manners, a 
 profound knowledge of the world and Who's Who; 
 by profession an ex-army officer, and, I had heard, 
 beyond his winnings at the gambling clubs, abso- 
 lutely without means of support. Three more differ- 
 ent-looking men could not well be imagined, and yet, 
 I know, if their minds and souls and hearts could be 
 127
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 analyzed, it would be found that all three contained 
 precisely the same elements and in exactly the same 
 proportions. They all wore baggy dress-suits, with 
 tape sewed on wherever it was possible, frilled shirt 
 fronts, and a great deal of unnecessary jewelry 
 principally turquoises. Merkel seemed to enjoy his 
 supper much more than the others, but yet found 
 ample time to say the most frothy, inane things in a 
 sepulchral voice to the fascinating De Lisle, while 
 Cossi, who did not really seem to care to whom he 
 talked, or what he said, chatted merrily in his piping 
 voice to the ponderous and motherly Madame Zurla. 
 Morgenstern divided his time between Cousin Mu- 
 riel and the unpronounceable Czermak; but it easily 
 could be seen that Danby was right, and such mind 
 and heart as the blonde ex-officer had were the sole 
 property of Madame Monteverde. 
 
 If unceasing chatter, hilarious laughter, snatches 
 of light song startlingly well sung, cleared plates, 
 rows of emptied bottles on the sideboard, constitute 
 a successful supper party, then, I think, my supper 
 party to Madame Monteverde for Cousin Muriel 
 was a success. Of the culinary part of the entertain- 
 128
 
 " SEDGWICK * 
 
 ment I felt justly proud, and Sedgwick, once recov- 
 ered from his first shock of meeting with his divinity, 
 served the supper superbly. Of one fact I am quite 
 certain; by the time the coffee was brought on I had 
 as my guests the greatest of all great opera singers of 
 all the world, and the only reason this fact was not 
 known universally, was because all impresarios had 
 wooden heads. I am sure of this, because my guests 
 told me the facts over and over again. I really think 
 Madame Monteverde enjoyed talking over the old 
 days at Florence, and Cousin Muriel's eyes fairly 
 glistened as she leaned well over the table, fearing 
 she would miss some pearl of thought, and at the 
 same time inhaling great draughts of cigarette smoke 
 and patchouli into her pure pink lungs, in the honest 
 belief that it was artistic atmosphere. When Sedg- 
 wick had served the coffee and left the tray of cordials 
 on the table, he retired to the adjoining room, to 
 await the departure of my guests. The door had no 
 sooner closed behind his back than Madame Mon- 
 teverde asked what I knew about my servant and 
 how he had happened to come to me. After the little 
 incident I had witnessed in the hallway, I cannot 
 129
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 say that her somewhat pointed question surprised 
 me. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," I said, "I really know 
 nothing. He is what you, in your profession, would 
 call an 'understudy.' He came to me almost a year 
 since to take temporarily the place of a man I used 
 to have, and he has been with me ever since. The 
 only thing I know about him is that his one interest 
 in life seems to be you. What do you know ?" 
 
 Madame Monte verde smiled, shrugged her pretty 
 shoulders, and taking a cigarette from the table, 
 rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. "I never 
 really met him strictly speaking but once before," 
 she said slowly, "and on that occasion I had him 
 thrown into jail." The buzzing about the table sud- 
 denly ceased, and my guests sat forward on their 
 chairs. For the moment Madame Monteverde had 
 their undivided attention. 
 
 "Funny!" said Morgenstern, with a sort of propri- 
 etary air, "I never heard of that. Was he a robber?" 
 
 The singer shook her head. "Not at all. As a 
 matter of fact, it was all my fault; he was quite inno- 
 cent. It was two seasons ago, when I was singing at 
 130
 
 1 It was two seasons ago, when I was singing at Monte Carlo."
 
 " SEDGWICK " 
 
 Monte Carlo. Every day I used to receive a letter 
 from an unknown admirer; at first he was simply 
 fulsomely flattering, and then he began threatening 
 me because I refused to answer his letters, and finally 
 he said he was going to shoot me. We called in the 
 police, and the only man I could suggest as the pos- 
 sible writer of the letters was this servant of yours. 
 Almost ever since I have been known at all he has 
 followed me. When I first went to sing at Milan, he 
 was there, and afterward I saw him at Paris, and 
 later at London, when I sang at Co vent Garden. 
 Nearly every night I would find him at the stage 
 door, but he was very quiet never came near me 
 just stood in the crowd, if there was a crowd, and 
 gazed at me with those big, glassy eyes of his. And on 
 bad, rainy nights, when the streets were deserted, 
 there he would be, pretending that it was not I he 
 was waiting for. But goodness! there was no mistak- 
 ing why he was there. Really, he used to look at me 
 sometimes in a sort of hungry way, and then I never 
 felt safe until they had closed the door of my carriage. 
 And then sometimes I thought I would speak to him, 
 because he seemed so miserable, and his clothes were 
 131
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 often very poor and worn, and he looked starved and 
 so in need of a kind word or, perhaps, a little help." 
 
 Little Cossi leaned his elbows on the table, and 
 breathing on his monocle, rubbed it with his silk 
 handkerchief. "And yet you had him put in jail!" 
 he piped in his high voice. 
 
 Madame Monteverde looked up and smiled at the 
 pudgy little tenor. "Yes, indirectly I had him put in 
 jail. I told the police how he had followed me from 
 city to city, and they, of course, were quite sure that 
 he was the man. The same day I got a note from my 
 admirer, saying I must meet him that night back of 
 the Casino, after the rooms had closed. It was ar- 
 ranged that I should start for the rendezvous, but 
 that the police should, of course, always be near me. 
 They shadowed this man of yours during the even- 
 ing, and when they saw him leave the rooms after I 
 did, and apparently follow me, they arrested him. 
 Just as they were busy doing this, the real man who 
 was probably a perfectly harmless crank jumped up 
 from behind a hedge and ran down the hill through 
 the gardens. One of the policemen followed, but lost 
 him in the crowd at the railway station." 
 132
 
 " SEDGWICK' 
 
 "And then!" Cousin Muriel gasped. 
 
 "Then well, oh, then, the toy policemen had to 
 put somebody in jail, so they locked up this poor soul 
 for the night. There was nothing against him, and nat- 
 urally, they had to let him go the next morning. I felt 
 terribly about it, but I only saw him once afterward." 
 
 "Did you speak to him?" I asked. 
 
 Madame Monteverde shrugged her pretty shoul- 
 ders. "I was walking down the hill to Monaco a few 
 days later, and met him coming up. You remember 
 there is only one sidewalk, and that is rather narrow. 
 I stopped, but the moment he saw I recognized him 
 and was going to speak, he stepped into the street 
 and stood with his hand to his cap at a sort of salute. 
 So I simply bowed and walked on. That is the last 
 time I saw him until to-night." 
 
 Madame Monteverde drew her scarlet lips into a 
 straight line and threw the unlit cigarette she had 
 been holding back on the table. "And, you know, 
 the curious thing about it all is," she said, "that I 
 believe he is absolutely sane." 
 
 The singer glanced at a little diamond watch she 
 wore on her corsage, and rose from the table. 
 133
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "I don't want to break up the party," she added, 
 " but it's much later than I thought." 
 
 The rest of the guests rose, too, and we went into 
 the library, where Sedgwick had brought the coats 
 and wraps. 
 
 With many effusive thanks and protestations of 
 undying regard, the party made their adieux. I was 
 much pleased that my little supper had been a suc- 
 cess and the evening had passed so happily, and I 
 was glad, too, to have heard something of my melan- 
 choly servant. Cousin Muriel and the other women, 
 with the exception of Madame Monteverde, had put 
 on their furs and gone out into the hallway. Sedgwick 
 had retired to the far end of the room and was stand- 
 ing by the window; the rest of us were ranged about 
 Madame Monteverde, watching Count Morgenstern 
 put on her wrap. I think the fool must have been a 
 little befuddled, for after he had once put the heavy 
 fur mantle about her, he lowered one corner of it and 
 deliberately kissed her on the bare shoulder. Even 
 in the dimly-lit room it was easy to see the blood rush 
 to the girl's face. I looked back of me and saw Sedg- 
 134
 
 " SEDGWICK' 
 
 wick bending almost double and ready to spring. 
 It was too late to do more than jump in between him 
 and Morgenstern, and the next moment the servant 
 came crashing into us. With a cry, Madame Mon- 
 teverde ran into the hallway and slammed the door 
 behind her. Sedgwick slowly rose to his feet and 
 stood staring at Morgenstern, his long arms and big 
 hands hanging before him, looking more like a huge 
 gorilla than a man. At the moment I would not have 
 given a farthing for the life of Morgenstern. Twice 
 Sedgwick tried to speak, but the words died in his 
 throat, and then suddenly he seemed to find his 
 voice, and he cried out: 
 
 "You cur! You blackguard! You've insulted my 
 child my own child, do you hear, and you've got to 
 answer to me to me!" 
 
 Morgenstern slowly stepped back toward the wall, 
 and Merkel and Cossi closed in in front of him. I 
 grabbed Danby by the arm and pushed him toward 
 the door. 
 
 "Start those women home!" I said. "You'd better 
 look out for Monteverde, and, for the love of Heaven, 
 don't tell her what this man said!" 
 135
 
 Sedgwick backed a few feet away from the little 
 group of foreigners, but not for one moment did he 
 take his eyes from the white face of Morgenstern. I 
 knew that this time he would reach his man, and I 
 stood aside and watched him. With his left arm he 
 knocked over Merkel and Cossi as if they had been 
 a couple of wooden tenpins, and almost at the same 
 moment whipped his big right hand across Morgen- 
 stern 's face, and raised a welt that looked as if the 
 man's forehead had been cut with a wire thong. For 
 a moment the lithe, straight figure of the Austrian 
 wavered, and then crumpled up and fell back into 
 a cabinet filled with glass. Cossi and Merkel stooped 
 over to see just how badly their friend was hurt, and 
 Morgenstern lay there among the broken glassware, 
 moaning and whining like a starved cat. 
 
 I looked at Sedgwick and nodded toward the far 
 end of the room. He shrugged his heavy shoulders, 
 and, with a last look at Morgenstern, moved away. 
 
 With the help of the two singers, I dragged the 
 
 Austrian into my bedroom, bound up his wound as 
 
 best I could, and packed him off in a cab to his hotel, 
 
 where I telephoned to have a doctor waiting for him. 
 
 136
 
 " SEDGWICK ' 
 
 I returned to the apartment and found Sedgwick 
 in the library, where I had left him. He had pulled 
 back the curtains and stood looking out on the snow- 
 covered streets. I shut the door with a snap, and he 
 slowly turned his big ungainly frame toward me. 
 
 "You look pretty white," I said. "You'd better 
 take a drink of something." 
 
 "I am discharged ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, you are discharged." 
 
 The man bowed, walked over to a sideboard, and 
 gulped down a big drink of neat brandy. I sat down 
 at my desk and lit a cigar. 
 
 "Do you know how much I owe you ?" I asked. 
 
 He put up his hand, as if by way of protest, and 
 slowly shook his head. The fire had gone as quickly 
 as it had come, and left only the gray face and the 
 meaningless eyes. 
 
 "I don't suppose there is anything you want to 
 say?" I asked, and turned toward the desk. 
 
 "Yes, there is something I should like to say, now 
 I am no longer in your service." 
 
 I turned back again to the putty-colored face. 
 "Won't you sit down ?" 
 
 137
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 My ex- valet shook his head. "No, I'd rather stand 
 it won't take long. I'm going to tell you this, be- 
 cause you were the only gentleman who was willing 
 to take a chance with me. You don't know the kind 
 of jobs a man is reduced to when he has no refer- 
 ences, and is up against it and can't stay put in one 
 place! You took me up and pretty near made a man 
 of me. This is the first home I have seen in a long 
 time." 
 
 "That is hardly a reason," I suggested, "for beat- 
 ing my guests into pulp." 
 
 He paid no heed to my remark, but walked over to 
 where I sat and rested one of his big hands on the 
 desk and looked down at me. He began the story in 
 a perfectly even voice, without any apparent animus 
 or feeling of any kind toward any one: 
 
 "I went to Vienna when I was a very young man. 
 My father was a clergyman in Lincolnshire, with six 
 children, and I was put to work in the bank in the 
 little town where we lived, and I couldn't stand the 
 sight of so much money. I was very young, and weak, 
 too, and when I took the money I got away to Vienna. 
 138
 
 " SEDGWICK " 
 
 It really was not very much money, and I heard 
 afterward my father fixed it up somehow; and for 
 that, and I suppose to avoid scandal at the bank, 
 they let me stay where I was. I had a good education 
 and spoke several languages, and, with the money 
 I had, I got along pretty well and made some 
 good friends. One of these kept a big store and 
 was quite rich. I fell in love with his daughter and 
 she cared for me, but the father old Parness did 
 not like me as a son-in-law. So we ran away and 
 got married, and her family shut their door against 
 her " 
 
 For a few moments Sedgwick hesitated and opened 
 and closed the hand that lay on the desk, and, while 
 his eyes seemed to be looking into mine, I knew that 
 they were looking through me to a time many years 
 past. 
 
 "For one year," he began again, "we were very 
 happy both of us very happy. It was hard on her 
 because we were poor and she had always had every- 
 thing. I got a job as a clerk in a hotel, where I could 
 interpret for the tourists. And then our girl our 
 little girl Rosa was born, and what should have 
 139
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 been our greatest happiness was the end of it all. 
 Her family offered to take my wife back if she would 
 leave me, and she was very ill and I had so little to 
 offer her and to Rosa not even a decent name for 
 the story of the bank had already come back to us 
 several times. I believe I am sure now that my 
 wife would have in time returned to me, but but she 
 did not live so very long after that. And then her 
 family came with an offer to adopt Rosa and educate 
 her and to do everything that money could do to 
 make her happy and protect her, and, in face of all 
 this, I could offer her but a home in the hotel where 
 I was an under-clerk " 
 
 The man hesitated and looked down at me, as if 
 asking permission to go on, so I nodded and he 
 went on : 
 
 "And although I could not see her or speak to her, 
 I always knew something of what she was doing. I 
 heard of her going to Florence, and then, after her 
 success at Milan, everything was quite different, be- 
 cause she belonged to the world and I could go to 
 see her like every one else. That has been my life, 
 sir, to follow when I could and sit up in the gallery 
 140
 
 Murgeiistern lay there among the broken glassware.
 
 "SEDGWICK' 
 
 the nights she sang, and listen to her and to see her 
 and to hear the crowds applaud and sometimes cheer 
 her, and bring her out before the curtain again and 
 again. I tell you, they love her it's not only the won- 
 derful voice, but it's the girl they love. And very 
 often I used to wait at the stage-door and in front of 
 her hotel and see her come out, dressed up as she 
 was to-night at supper, and watch her get into her 
 carriage." And then, for the first time, I saw Sedg- 
 wick's features relax into what on any other face 
 would have been a smile. 
 
 "And do you know, sir," he said, "that one night 
 at Monte Carlo they had me arrested and put me in 
 jail for following her ! They thought I meant harm to 
 Rosa to my own child 1" 
 
 "And Morgenstern ? " I asked. 
 
 The smile faded from his face and he rubbed his 
 coat-sleeve slowly across his forehead. 
 
 "I don't know," he said, "I don't know these 
 women have so little sense. He has been following her 
 for two years now; he is a blackguard, trying to marry 
 her for her money an adventurer-^-you could tell 
 that. I know that he was thrown out of a club in 
 141
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Paris for turning the king too often at ecarte. I tell 
 you " 
 
 The man suddenly stopped talking, and a curious, 
 confused look came into his eyes. 
 
 "My God!" he whispered, "I never thought of 
 that. Do you think they would tell her?" 
 
 "Tell her?" I repeated. 
 
 "Yes, tell her what I said when I lost my head 
 there tell her that I said she was my own child ! Do 
 you know what that means do you know that I can 
 never go near her or let her see me again?" He 
 grasped my arm in his big hand, and stared into my 
 eyes. "Tell me," he whispered, "will they tell her?" 
 
 "From the way I heard them talk to-night," I 
 said, "I believe that crowd would tell anything." 
 
 Sedgwick let go the grip on my arm and walked 
 slowly back to the window. For a few moments he 
 stood with his big back silhouetted against the long 
 frosted panes of glass, and then he turned again and 
 faced the room. 
 
 "But after all," he said, "I can still see her on the 
 stage. I can see her and hear her, and when they cheer 
 142
 
 " SEDGWICK " 
 
 her, and she comes out and bows and smiles at them, 
 and they shout and throw their bouquets to her, I can 
 say to myself that that is my child after all I have 
 done something. For that is something, sir, don't you 
 think, to give a great singer to the world ?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "much more than most of us do. 
 But, after all, what if they should tell her ? Why not 
 let me tell her?" 
 
 The man looked at me as if he could not quite 
 understand the meaning of my words. "Tell her!" he 
 repeated, "tell Madame Marie Monteverde that her 
 father is a broken-down servant! Ask her to recog- 
 nize me as I am after more than twenty years!" He 
 spread out the palms of his hands toward me and 
 looked down at his own gaunt, ungainly frame. " Not 
 that," he said, and it seemed as if he was talking 
 only to himself. "I must be getting away now. I'm 
 sorry to go, but she does not leave for Paris before 
 the spring, and by then " 
 
 The electric bell at my front door rang out through 
 
 the silent rooms, and so shrill and unexpected was it 
 
 at that hour that I unconsciously started to my feet. 
 
 I looked at Sedgwick and found him with his arms 
 
 143
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 hanging at his side, the palms still held outward, and 
 his eyes staring straight ahead of him. I went out into 
 the hallway and opened the front door. In the dimly 
 lit corridor I saw my friend Danby, and back of him 
 the figure of Madame Monteverde, wrapped in her 
 fur coat and her face shaded by the big pink hat. 
 
 For a moment no one spoke, and then the girl came 
 toward me. 
 
 "Is is he is my father still here?" she asked. 
 
 I nodded toward the library, and she passed me 
 and went in, and I watched her close the door softly 
 behind her. 
 
 Then Danby and I sat down on the bench in the 
 hallway and waited. 
 
 144
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 IF Escott had planned his own downfall, he would 
 not have had it otherwise. His failure was absolute 
 and complete, and until the last moment he had lived 
 as he had always lived. 
 
 The young man had spent the morning and the 
 greater part of the afternoon in the little glass office 
 of his broker. "Of course," said his financial adviser, 
 "we are willing to increase your margins for your 
 own sake, and the sake of your father, who was a 
 good client, but I fear that we could not help you 
 sufficiently to beat out the present market. Besides, 
 we but followed your instructions. The fault, you 
 must admit, was yours, not ours. Sell now and the 
 statement shows you owe us nothing. A few days, a 
 few hours, and you may be hampered with a debt 
 which it will take you years to pay back." 
 
 Escott got up and with much deliberation pulled 
 on his gloves. 
 
 147
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "That seems easy," he said. "Then I owe you 
 nothing?" 
 
 "Nothing," echoed the broker. "We will call your 
 account balanced, and let me assure you that you 
 have acted wisely. I hope that some day you will 
 build up another fortune as great as your father's, 
 and once more become one of our valued clients." 
 
 Escott smiled and ran lightly down the steps. He 
 gave the address of his lawyer to the cabman and, the 
 smile still playing about his lips, fell back into the 
 deep cushions of the hansom. The young man felt as 
 if a great weight suddenly had been lifted from his 
 mind: the struggle was over and now he knew the 
 worst. For months he had hung on with a terrible 
 tenacity to the hope of building up a new fortune on 
 the small remnants of his patrimony. During this 
 time he had not changed his mode of life one iota, 
 and when the end seemed to be approaching he had 
 placed his little all on one coup which, if successful, 
 might have saved him. But the coup was not suc- 
 cessful. He had failed, but he owed no one a farthing. 
 
 His life to the present had been laid along a smooth 
 and shaded pathway; on either side were pleasant 
 148
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 pastures in which he had roamed at will with no heed 
 of the future. Above the shade-trees that lined his 
 path the sun had forever seemed to shine, and its 
 rays glinted through the boughs and had lighted him 
 on his joyous way. But now he had come to a great 
 stone wall, sheering high above him; the shadow of 
 warning it had thrown in his path had been un- 
 heeded, and he was face to face with the rocks and 
 mortar. He stood before it impotently. Good health 
 alone was his; his life had taught him no means of 
 overcoming the obstacle that faced him. 
 
 The cab stopped before his lawyer's door, but the 
 office was closed. After all, it mattered but little. He 
 knew that there was nothing owing to him, and the 
 interview could have ended only in harsh words and 
 a beggarly loan, and at heart he was glad to avoid 
 both one and the other. 
 
 Not until he had reached his own warmly lighted 
 rooms did he seriously consider, or acknowledge to 
 himself that a great change had come into his life, and 
 that a decision of serious import must be reached, and 
 at once. For a moment he tried to avoid the struggle 
 that was inevitable, and lay back in an easy-chair 
 149
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 listening to his servant moving quietly about the ad- 
 joining room. And then, as if to arouse himself, he 
 stood up and threw the cigar he had been smoking 
 into the hearth. Whatever there was to do must be 
 done alone; he wished no one to be a partner in his 
 ignominy. 
 
 He called his servant and the man appeared at the 
 doorway. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I think you had better put out 
 my evening things, and after I go out pack up all my 
 clothes. I am going away. Come to-morrow and 
 make the rooms ready for the agent. Put the photo- 
 graphs in the trunks, and you had better take any of 
 the bric-a-brac that is mine for yourself." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the servant. "Am I to go 
 with you?" 
 
 "No, I think not. I'm afraid I shall not need you 
 for the present. I am sorry that I could not give you 
 more time to look about for another place." 
 
 Escott took out his pocketbook, and gave the man 
 the last bills it held. 
 
 "There are your wages for two weeks," he said. 
 "That is usual, is it not?" 
 150
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 The man bowed and left the room, shutting the 
 door behind him. "And now," said Escott, half 
 aloud, "where the devil am I to go? Leave these 
 rooms I certainly must. If I stay in New York I shall 
 have to take a clerkship that is, if I can get one 
 and that probably means a refined boarding-house 
 at best."] 
 
 And then there came over him an awful dread of 
 the life that he must lead in the city where, at least in 
 his own set, he had once been of some import. He 
 knew that he was no longer a part of it only a mis- 
 erable outsider. With it all came a great love for 
 his life of the past, and the material side of it rose up 
 before him and seemed doubly attractive to him now 
 that it was beyond his grasp. To it all there seemed 
 but one answer. He must leave the town and the 
 people he loved, and must begin again where there 
 was nothing to remind him of all the happiness that 
 he had known and that was to be his no longer. 
 
 "Thank God," he said, "there is still time to leave 
 
 it with honor!" He threw himself into a chair, and 
 
 burying his head in his hands thought of the men he 
 
 had known, whom he had seen fail as he had failed, 
 
 151
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 and who had lacked the strength to fly away from it 
 all. Some of them had become secretaries to rich 
 friends, sometimes in their offices, sometimes in their 
 homes, but always with salaries out of all proportion 
 to their worth. Some spent their lives as guests in their 
 friends' houses, wandering from place to place, living 
 in the hope that the next mail would bring them a 
 letter offering a bed and board for the following week. 
 It mattered not whether it was on a yacht or a special 
 train or only a country house it meant food and 
 drink, a week more of ease, a week less of honest 
 work. And then there were certain men he knew at 
 the clubs. No one was quite sure how they even paid 
 their dues, but they made many wagers and were 
 known to win often at cards people seemed to for- 
 get the occasional losses till the final breaking up and 
 the sudden disappearance came. And then there 
 were the men who sold themselves and their father's 
 name and were married to the highest bidder. 
 
 No, he would not be one of these. " Broke," he 
 said to himself, "but not a blackguard." 
 
 He walked across the room, and raising the win- 
 dow, looked down on the black city with its myriad of 
 152
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 yellow lights. The noise of the streets rose in a great 
 wave, and as he held tightly to the window-frame, 
 the towers and church steeples seemed to waver 
 slightly, and the high buildings to rock slowly on 
 their foundations, and all seemed to be moving 
 toward him. "My God," he muttered, "how I love 
 it." 
 
 An hour later Escott had fully realized the novelty 
 and extreme seriousness of his position. It was most 
 contradictory, and the situation was not without 
 humor even in the eyes of the chief actor in this 
 modern tragedy. He sat in a luxurious room, dressed 
 as well as the best English tailor and valet could 
 make him; his assets, an extensive wardrobe, the 
 tickets for a box at a music hall for that night, a 
 dollar bill and a few silver coins. There were two 
 courses open to him. One was to sell the luxurious 
 wardrobe, pawn the little jewelry he owned, and with 
 the proceeds leave New York to begin a new life far 
 from the world he knew and liked so well and where 
 he was equally well known and equally liked. The 
 idea of beginning again in New York was not worthy 
 153
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 of consideration. The other alternative was made 
 possible by an excellent credit. It had been done be- 
 fore, and was being done every day. With a few 
 loans easily contracted from his immediate friends, 
 and a good run of credit at the clubs, the restaurants 
 and the shops where he was known, he could live in 
 luxury for weeks, even months. He had known some 
 men do it for years. In the meantime something might 
 turn up. If it didn't well! he could then leave town 
 and begin his new workaday life. There would be some 
 unpleasant things said about him, but after all, it 
 would soon be forgotten, and no doubt he would 
 one day return and pay back the money and re- 
 sume his old position, or nearly the same position. 
 The world, on the whole, he inclined to believe, was 
 generous to young men who had temporarily fallen 
 by the wayside. 
 
 The thought loomed before him a great tempta- 
 tion, and in his heart he had a terrible desire for one 
 last round of pleasure before he left this material world 
 which always had been so extremely kind to him. 
 
 Whatever he did, he felt must be done at once. He 
 knew that he should turn his back on it all and seek 
 154
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 honor in flight; it was really the only course, and after 
 the first step the rest would be easy. But he feared to 
 take the first step. It was nearly dinner-time, he 
 was rather hungry, and he could sell nothing before 
 the next morning: he must either dine on the little 
 money he had or open an account at a restaurant. 
 There was the first hurdle rising directly in front of 
 him, and he could take it as a thoroughbred hunter 
 should or he could shy at it like a dog. The young 
 man buttoned his coat tightly about him, and set out 
 to look for his first cheap dinner. It was nearing seven 
 o'clock when he turned into the avenue. In the half 
 dozen blocks he walked he passed as many doors 
 where he could have entered and been sure of a 
 hearty welcome and a good dinner, but there was to 
 be no turning aside, no chance for a change of deci- 
 sion on the morrow. The solemn doors of his friends' 
 houses tempted him but little, and so he passed them 
 by until it occurred to him that the avenue was not 
 the place to look for restaurants where they served 
 dinners for a dollar. He turned down Thirty-fourth 
 Street and in a few minutes found himself on Broad- 
 way. The street, with its thousands of white and 
 155
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 yellow lights, was crowded with men and women re- 
 turning from their work, and he regarded them with 
 a new interest and wondered how he should play 
 their part. They certainly seemed a happy, con- 
 tented lot. A newsboy ran in front of him and thrust 
 an evening paper into his hand. Escott took the 
 paper mechanically, and while he was looking for his 
 change asked the boy how much he made on each 
 paper and how many he sold a day. 
 
 "Half a cent on each copy," he repeated after the 
 boy, "and you sell perhaps thirty on a good day." 
 He told the boy to keep the change, and went on, 
 whistling softly to himself. 
 
 He had gone but a short distance farther when he 
 heard a woman's voice calling him by name, and 
 then a hansom drew up suddenly at the curb and a 
 girl alighted, and without paying him much heed 
 gave the driver some directions about meeting her 
 later in the evening. 
 
 Miss Stella Brunelle had never before inspired any 
 particular interest in Escott, and she certainly did not 
 do so at this moment when his thoughts were dis- 
 tinctly of a serious nature. He had frequently watched 
 156
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 her with pleasure from a box at one of the music- 
 halls, and she had appeared to him as part of a bright 
 and pleasing picture. Her physical attractions on and 
 off the stage were easily evident, but as to her mental 
 powers or views of life in general he had chosen to 
 remain in ignorance. He had known Miss Stella 
 Brunelle for some time, as he had known many other 
 women of the stage, and on several occasions she had 
 been his guest at supper-parties after the play. 
 
 "I like Stella Brunelle," he had explained once, 
 "because to my mind she fills the youthful ideal of 
 what a stage beauty really should be, and I always 
 ask her to supper when I have a college man or a 
 friend from the country stopping with me. Presum- 
 ably she does eat eggs and drink coffee for her break- 
 fast, but I always somehow imagine her confronted 
 by hot birds and a frosted wine-cooler at her feet. 
 My college and bucolic friends all delight in her, but 
 personally I don't know that we have ever exchanged 
 five words." 
 
 When Miss Brunelle had dismissed her hansom, 
 she turned to Escott with a show of much enthusiasm 
 and apparent real delight at the meeting. 
 157
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Well, I am glad," she said. "I was that lonesome 
 at home that I simply couldn't eat by myself, so I 
 came downtown in the hope of finding some one to 
 dine with. Now, don't tell me you have an engage- 
 ment. If you have, send them a wire. I must have 
 dinner with somebody." 
 
 Escott threw away his cigarette, and looked down 
 into Miss Brunelle's large, appealing eyes. 
 
 "No," he said, meditatively, "I'm not dining with 
 any one. Quite alone, in fact." He hesitated for a 
 moment and took a cursory inventory of Miss Bru- 
 nelle's furs and her glistening white gloves. 
 
 "I was thinking," he said, "of trying one of those 
 Sixth Avenue tables-d'hote. They do say you get the 
 most remarkable dinner for fifty cents. Have you 
 ever tried one ? " 
 
 "I certainly have," answered Miss Brunelle, "and 
 I can't see them with field-glasses. Tables-d'hote and 
 beefsteak parties are all right in a big crowd on Sat- 
 urday nights, but this is only Tuesday." 
 
 "So it is," he answered, "only Tuesday, as you 
 say. Still, I rather like the idea of just you and me din- 
 ing alone at a table-d'hote. You know they throw in 
 158
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 wine and coffee, and olives and and salted almonds 
 for all I know." 
 
 "But why?" said Miss Brunelle, a little impa- 
 tiently. "Here we are at the very door of a fine 
 palm-room. Why go farther?" 
 
 "Why, yes; why, of course," he said. "Let's go in 
 here." 
 
 For just a moment he stopped at the door. How 
 absurd it all was, to be sure only the cost of the 
 dinner. He could pay the next morning, and yet he 
 could not help the feeling that he had been a little 
 weak, for in a way he had broken the promise he had 
 made to himself and the cause was hardly a worthy 
 one. 
 
 They walked down the long room under the 
 palms, the mirrors reflecting their figures as they 
 passed. Escott knew half the people at the tables and 
 nodded to them as he followed the maitre d 'hotel to 
 the end of the restaurant. The girl stopped to speak 
 to some of her friends, but Escott seemed to wish to 
 avoid them as much as it was possible, and did not 
 halt until he had reached his own table. 
 
 There certainly was a charm about it all the low 
 159
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 music, the dull marbles and the old-gold pillars, and 
 the bright dresses of the women half hidden by the 
 palms, and Miss Brunelle sitting opposite to him at 
 the little table with its snowy linen and heavy silver 
 and fine glass. As she slowly drew off her gloves, he 
 looked up curiously into her face, shaded by the dull 
 light of the little pink table-lamp. She seemed to him 
 to have a great deal of beauty at that moment. 
 
 "And now," she said, briskly, "what is it to be?" 
 
 "What do you think ?" he asked. 
 
 "Well, you know I'm out of that bit in the first of 
 the act, and don't come until near the end, so I have 
 plenty of time. My idea about a dinner," she ran on, 
 "is to have nothing that is ready or inexpensive, and 
 simplicity only as regards length." 
 
 "I should say that meant," he said, "caviare, ter- 
 rapin, duck with salad, and cafe extra. What do you 
 think?" 
 
 "Yes," she said slowly, "and let us compromise 
 on something fairly dry." 
 
 The dinner ordered, Miss Brunelle settled back 
 into her chair and smiled contentedly across the 
 table. 
 
 160
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 "Billy," she said, "you don't mind me calling you 
 Billy everybody does. What are you going to call 
 me?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know Miss Fate, I think, might be 
 an appropriate name." 
 
 "Why Miss Fate?" she asked. "Is that a part in 
 a play?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "it's a character part in a tragedy 
 called 'Life.'" 
 
 "Really, but I wouldn't look so serious about it if 
 I were you, and for heaven's sake don't look me all 
 over like that. Is there anything the matter with my 
 collar ?" Miss Brunelle turned and gazed at herself in 
 the mirror. 
 
 "It wasn't your collar so much as your face that 
 interested me," he said. "They say that every 
 Antony has his Cleopatra, but I somehow never 
 imagined you as mine. But we can never tell, can 
 we?" 
 
 "Cleopatra," repeated Miss Brunelle "I saw 
 Mrs. Potter in the part when I was a kid. I forget 
 Antony. What did he do ?" 
 
 "Antony? Well he had a big, fine thing to do, 
 161
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 and he started out to do it all right and then he met 
 Cleopatra, and he ran away." 
 
 " What, ran away from the lady ? " said Miss Bru- 
 nelle. "How brusque!" 
 
 "No, he ran away from the fine thing." 
 
 "All on account of the lady ?" asked the soubrette. 
 "Times haven't changed much, have they?" and 
 she glanced significantly around the restaurant. 
 
 "Thank heaven, here's the caviare," she added. 
 "And Cleopatra she let him run away from the 
 stunt?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said; "times haven't changed much 
 in that respect either, do you think?" 
 
 "Well, now," said Miss Brunelle, "I don't know. 
 There was Johnny Andrews. Did you know him? 
 He went broke. Races, I think and he side-stepped 
 never so much as said good-by. A girl sent him 
 away. I'll never forget the night he got back; he 
 walked into the box and Elsie fainted. Well, the 
 whole show stopped, and old Gessler, that led the 
 orchestra and never was known to speak to any 
 one, stood up and bowed to him." Miss Brunelle 
 picked up a piece of bread and broke it reflect- 
 162
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 ively. "I guess that was the gayest supper I ever at- 
 tended." 
 
 Escott leaned back in his chair and looked curi- 
 ously into the girl's face. 
 
 "Miss Brunelle," he said, "you are very inter- 
 esting to me because you are the ideal of a cer- 
 tain type." The girl smiled doubtfully. "I should 
 like your opinion in a certain matter," he went on 
 very slowly, "because I know that you are quite 
 honest. Now suppose a man you knew, a man like 
 myself, who is believed to have plenty of money, 
 should wake up some day and find himself ruined. 
 Quite ruined I mean literally without a penny. You 
 wouldn't say to him, 'Go away,' would you? It 
 seems to me you would say: 'Better stay here; a few 
 more dinners, a few more suppers, what matter the 
 cost in the future? Here there's life and pleasure; 
 we will smile at you, and we will make you laugh. 
 After all, our interest ends with the liqueurs. The bill 
 is paid by somebody, some time.' That is what you 
 would say, wouldn't you?" 
 
 He was speaking with great earnestness, and, 
 leaning far over the table, looked anxiously into the 
 163
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 girl's face as if her answer was of much moment to 
 him. "Look at the men about us," he went on. 
 " What do you know of them ? To-day they are rich, 
 because they are spending their money like Indian 
 princes. But how is it to-morrow? How many men 
 have you and I seen here fail miserably with debts 
 everywhere ? Do we care ? We have eaten with them, 
 drunk with them and laughed with them. Does it 
 matter after all from where the money comes? We 
 have paid our debt in our presence and in our poor 
 jokes. We owe them nothing." 
 
 Miss Brunelle put down her fork and looked casu- 
 ally over the different men and women sitting near 
 her. "Well," she said, "now there's but that's per- 
 sonal. I think perhaps we would all act differently. 
 Some of our friends here to-night should be in jail 
 and some have a fair right to be at large. The trouble 
 is that when we are making two hundred a week we 
 forget the day when we carried a spear. It's really 
 wonderful how quickly you can educate yourself 
 from a piece of bacon to a partridge breast. I don't 
 suppose there is hardly a woman here to-night that 
 hasn't done a sketch in a ten-twenty-and -thirty 
 164
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 show, and now look at us. Why, I remember the days 
 when they used to give out the parts, I didn't care 
 whether I had one line or was the whole show, and I 
 can remember when I used to lend the other girls 
 my rouge and hare's-foot and help pack the star's 
 trunk for her. These long engagements in New York 
 and this taxicab life do make one a little selfish, I 
 guess. As you say, Billy, I suppose we do rather 
 come to regard these things as our rights, and I don't 
 imagine we do think much of when or how it all 
 comes. If you had ever done a season of one-night 
 stands you would know what a good New York en- 
 gagement means. Heavens, how I hate the road; this 
 is the real thing. No trains and early calls and lunch- 
 counter dinners for me again. Eat, drink and for 
 heaven's sake try and make merry. What are you 
 thinking about ? " 
 
 "I was thinking," Escott said, "that to-morrow 
 night some poor devil here may have dropped out of 
 it all. Dropped into some strange place without any 
 money and without friends. And the worst of it all 
 will be that he will know that here it is all going on 
 just the same as it was the night before, when he was 
 165
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 a part of it the same crowd and the same music 
 and that his friends of the night before will laugh 
 with the rest of them, and that he will be as dead to 
 them as if he had never lived." 
 
 "My!" said Miss Brunelle, "you are a lively com- 
 panion. Let me count the men here to-night. If they 
 don't all show up to-morrow, I'm afraid I couldn't 
 eat my dinner." 
 
 And then Miss Brunelle seemed to pull herself to- 
 gether mentally, as it were, and to assume the head 
 of the table and the role of the hostess. She talked 
 continuously, and laughed over the old days of the 
 road and her strange experiences as a popular sou- 
 brette, the idol of the New England and Pennsyl- 
 vania circuits. And finally Escott found himself 
 laughing, too, and asking her many questions, and 
 her views on people and the events of the day. They 
 were, perhaps, narrow views, but they were interest- 
 ing ones because they were somewhat individual and 
 always amusing. At times it almost seemed to Escott 
 that the girl was perhaps forcing her fun in her 
 efforts to keep him interested, but he was hardly 
 willing to admit that she was capable of making any 
 166
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 serious effort for any cause, and so he credited the 
 flow of spirits to the excellent dinner, which Miss 
 Brunelle seemed to find most grateful. But in time 
 the actress consulted her diamond-studded watch 
 and began to search for her gloves. 
 
 Escott called for the check, and when it came he 
 signed it on the back with some deliberation. Then 
 he put the last dollar he owned on the plate and 
 pushed it toward the waiter. 
 
 "Don't you ever look at your checks," asked Miss 
 Brunelle, "especially when you sign them?" 
 
 "I don't know," he answered. "I can't remember 
 that I ever signed one here before." He turned the 
 bill over and glanced at the amount. It read, " Four- 
 teen dollars and twenty cents." 
 
 "Why do you smile ?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," he answered; "there is some- 
 thing rather comic about that twenty cents. It seems 
 such an unnecessary detail. Do you have to go ?" 
 
 Escott took Miss Brunelle to the stage-door of the 
 
 music-hall and then went up into his box. It was 
 
 warm, and the little theatre looked very bright, and 
 
 the audience seemed particularly enthusiastic and 
 
 167
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 easily amused. From the stage he looked down on a 
 sea of faces ; they all were smiling and seemed so con- 
 tent and fearless of the morrow. Then his glance 
 wandered back to the stage, and he looked curiously 
 at two women who were dancing down to the foot- 
 lights. 
 
 "And," said Escott to himself, "they will be doing 
 that to-morrow night, and the night after, and the 
 night after that. And they will smile as they are 
 smiling now and be quite content." 
 
 The performance passed before him as a revolving 
 kaleidoscope, a whirling mass of color and odd lights 
 and fanciful movements. For a moment he tried to 
 steady his thoughts and to hunt out Miss Brunelle. 
 She was standing at the back of the stage and look- 
 ing, at least so it seemed, directly at him. She smiled 
 and he smiled at her, and then somehow she became 
 blended in the stage-picture again, and was lost in 
 the moving mass of color. He pulled viciously at his 
 cigar and breathed the hot air of the theatre through 
 his nostrils. It was all so very warm and bright, and 
 the music so very tuneful. Yes, it was extremely hard 
 to give it all up. And why should he ? No. He would 
 168
 
 A MODERN CLEOPATRA 
 
 stay on for a day or a week or a month, and drift 
 with the tide of his own dissipated fortunes. There 
 must come a turning some day. The curtain was 
 falling, and he smiled listlessly at the faces of half a 
 dozen women who were smiling up at him. The 
 music went on playing the popular song of the bur- 
 lesque, and he went out humming it to himself. 
 
 "Some day," he thought, "I may be humming 
 that on a prairie or in jail, and it will bring all this 
 back to me. I must not forget that song. It is so 
 reminiscent." 
 
 At first he decided that he would begin his week 
 of pleasure at once, and had determined to look up 
 some of his friends for a little supper-party. And 
 then the strain of the day began to tell upon him, 
 and as he walked into the cool air of the streets his 
 steps seemed to turn instinctively toward home. 
 
 When he arrived there he found two notes on his 
 desk. The first he opened was an invitation to a din- 
 ner for the following night. 
 
 "Will I go ? Rather," he said. "The devil certainly 
 doesn't seem to lose much time in looking after his 
 own." 
 
 169
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 The second note was addressed in pencil, and in 
 an unknown handwriting. He tore off the envelope 
 and found inside the bill for the dinner he had had 
 that night with Miss Brunelle. His glance fell on the 
 familiar fourteen dollars and twenty cents, and then 
 he turned over the soiled slip of paper, and across its 
 back was stamped the name of the restaurant and 
 the word "Paid." Underneath it, in the same hand- 
 writing as the envelope, were these lines from Miss 
 Stella Brunelle: "Dear Billy: I told the girls at the 
 theatre that you were going away to-morrow. Going 
 into some sort of business out West (I forget just 
 where). They were very sorry, but they said they 
 would be mighty glad to see you again whenever you 
 got back. Good-by, and God bless you, Billy." 
 
 170
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 MlSS ROSE CAWTHORNE, character woman 
 of the Great Mogul Company, sat with folded hands 
 at the window of her room in the theatrical boarding- 
 house, which for many years she had honored with 
 her patronage. Now and again she glanced through 
 the stiffly starched lace curtains and saw Twenty- 
 second Street deep in new fallen snow, the trees 
 heavy with sparkling icicles, and the air filled with 
 fluttering silver flakes. Inside, a coal fire glowed on 
 the shallow grate and a single burning gas jet gave 
 to the room a certain air of cheerfulness, even though 
 it brought into sharper relief the faded pink carpet 
 and the badly frayed green silk furniture. 
 
 As the hands of the nickel alarm clock on the 
 
 mantel marked the hour of three, Miss Cawthorne 
 
 unfolded her hands, took the rose-colored knit shawl 
 
 from her shoulders, once more glanced out through 
 
 173
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the lace curtains, and then walked to the mirror 
 across the room. For a moment she looked steadily 
 into the glass at the sharply cut features, the faded 
 coloring, the shadows under the eyes, and then with 
 the merest suggestion of a smile glanced down at 
 her well-preserved figure. She opened a "vanity 
 box" that lay on the bureau, and, with the dexterity 
 of one accustomed to making up, lightly touched her 
 lips with rouge and added a little more powder to the 
 already ample supply on her nose and cheeks. Then 
 she patted the curls on her forehead and gently 
 brushed back the bronze-red pompadour. It had 
 been a long time since Miss Cawthorne had antici- 
 pated a visit from one of the gilded youth of New 
 York. 
 
 It was hardly the room she would have chosen in 
 which to receive her guest; but it was well enough for 
 a theatrical boarding-house, and much more private 
 than the reception-room down stairs. By no reaches 
 of the imagination could the folding bed be taken 
 for any other article of furniture, and the green silk 
 of the chairs was certainly very badly frayed; but 
 there was a table cover of a lively hue, and many 
 174
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 signed photographs of many actresses went far 
 toward covering the faded wall-paper. Once more 
 Miss Cawthorne glanced out at the snow-covered 
 street, and was this time rewarded by the sight of an 
 approaching electric hansom. With an ostentatious 
 clanging of the gong the cab drew up in front of the 
 boarding-house, and the woman returned to her 
 seat at the window. 
 
 The colored servant who went to the door had 
 received his instructions, and without delay led the 
 visitor up two flights of stairs to the actress's room. 
 The visitor was a young man, perhaps twenty-five 
 years of age, tall and athletic looking, with a clean, 
 fresh skin and fine clear eyes that spoke of health 
 and a total lack of care and worry. Miss Cawthorne 
 unfolded her hands and rose from her chair with 
 more sprightliness than she had originally planned. 
 "It was very good of you to come, Mr. Brandt," she 
 said, extending her hand. "I have seen you sitting 
 on the front row at our performance so often now 
 that I really look upon you as an old friend." 
 
 "It was very good of you to ask me," said young 
 Brandt, bending over until his lips almost touched 
 175
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the diamonds on the powdered hand. She held him 
 away from her at arm's length, and under the hang- 
 ing gas jet looked steadily into the young man's 
 clear blue eyes. 
 
 "You are very like your father," she said, "in your 
 looks, and more especially in your manner." 
 
 "Oh, then you knew my father?" 
 
 "Yes, a long time ago. You must accept that as 
 my apology for asking you here. Your father had a 
 certain courtesy, even courtliness in his manner, that 
 was quite old fashioned, but I am sure all women 
 loved him for it. I think there must be much of the 
 same charm in the son; that is, if I am to believe all 
 the things I hear of him. Won't you sit down ?" 
 
 Miss Cawthorne returned to her arm chair at the 
 window; but Brandt walked over to the hearth, and 
 stood warming his hands behind his back, and smil- 
 ing at his hostess. 
 
 "I suppose you refer to my friends in the Mogul 
 Company?" he said. "I really hope they do like 
 me. You've all given me such a lot of fun. I don't 
 know what I should do if the Mogul left town." 
 
 Miss Cawthorne looked up and smiled at him, the 
 176
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 meantime beating a tattoo on the padded arms of 
 her chair. "Oh, they like you very much; they're 
 forever talking of your parties, and they show me 
 the flowers and things you send them. Especially 
 little Miss Page; she and I are great pals such a 
 nice girl! She told me yesterday all about the won- 
 derful supper you are having for her to-night. It 
 must be very pleasant to be able to give all that hap- 
 piness. Very different from the old days at Selby- 
 ville, I imagine." 
 
 The young man nodded. "Yes, very different," 
 he said. "It was certainly quiet enough there. My 
 father, you know, was always devoted to his flowers 
 and his books, and until the last his writing was his 
 greatest amusement. Neither he nor my mother cared 
 very much about going around with other people. 
 So you can understand Selbyville was not very gay 
 for me, and when my mother died there seemed to 
 be no particular reason for my staying on." 
 
 "And so," said Miss Cawthorne, smiling, and with 
 
 a certain ornate manner of the stage, "you left the 
 
 old home, and, bringing your fortune with you, came 
 
 to the great city, and there you discovered content 
 
 177
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 on the front row of the Casino theatre, and complete 
 happiness in the girlish smiles of little Maizie Page." 
 
 Brandt nodded his head slowly. "I must confess 
 that it is the best chair I have found so far in New 
 York, and Miss Page's smiles are quite wonderful. 
 Don't you think so ?" 
 
 Miss Cawthorne looked out of the window until 
 the glare of the glistening snow made her turn her 
 eyes back to the soft light of the room and to the 
 fresh, pleasant face of the young man standing in 
 front of the fireplace. "I suppose they are quite 
 wonderful," she said slowly; "but then, you see, I 
 am a fairly old woman now, and have seen a great 
 many wonderful smiles from the stage to the front 
 row, and they all meant such very different things 
 from what they were supposed to mean. Sometimes 
 they were meant to show a row of good teeth or a 
 pair of dimples; and sometimes they were meant to 
 appease the stage manager in the prompt entrance, 
 or make the musical director or their particular 
 friend in the orchestra jealous; or very often they 
 were meant to make the rest of the audience think 
 that the owner of the smile had at least one admirer 
 178
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 on the front row or in the boxes. It is wonderful how 
 really insincere most stage smiles are. But of course 
 Miss Page's smile may be different. They tell me 
 you are really very devoted; they have even sug- 
 gested that you thought of marriage." 
 
 The color slowly crept into the young man's face, 
 and he half raised his hand in protest. 
 
 Miss Cawthorne quickly rose from her chair. 
 "Don't please don't!" she begged. "I'm so sorry! 
 I didn't mean to say that." 
 
 Brandt went over to the table and picked up his 
 gloves and hat. "Really, Miss Cawthorne, I don't 
 want to be uncivil," he said, "nor unappreciative; 
 but I can't understand why you should take such 
 an interest in Miss Page and me." 
 
 Miss Cawthorne walked toward the door, as if in 
 an attempt to prevent Brandt leaving the room, and 
 then turned and held out her hand toward him. 
 "I'm very sorry," she said "it was so clumsy of me! 
 I know that I'm only a stranger. Please forgive me 
 please ! It wasn't what I wanted to say at all." 
 
 Brandt nodded gravely. "May I ask you then 
 what you did want to say ? " 
 179
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Why yes," she said. "It was really nothing 
 just an incident that I thought might interest you. 
 Please sit down, won't you, or go back there and 
 stand by the fire ? I don't want to think you are going 
 away at once. I wanted so much to be good friends 
 with you." 
 
 Brandt put down his hat and gloves and went back 
 to his old place in front of the grate. The actress sat 
 at a little marble centre-table, leaning her elbows on 
 it and resting her chin between the palms of her 
 hands. 
 
 " It's not a very pleasant story for me to tell," she 
 said, looking up at Brandt, " but it won't take long. 
 
 It's about your mother." 
 
 i 
 The young man looked at her with much curiosity, 
 
 even a certain incredulity; so far as he knew, his 
 mother had never known any one who was in any way 
 connected with the stage. 
 
 "Do you see that large panel photograph over 
 there on the piano?" Miss Cawthorne said, without 
 changing her position. "I mean the very old faded 
 one, of the girl in the black tights, and the close fit- 
 ting basque, and the foolish hat with the plumes? 
 180
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 Well, that's I twenty-five years ago or more, per- 
 haps. Just think, that was taken before you were 
 born!" 
 
 Brandt picked up the photograph and carried it to 
 the light. "It is very, very beautiful indeed," he said. 
 
 "That was my first great success. We played the 
 piece here in New York for nearly a year; and that 
 was a wonderful year for me. I was just about twenty 
 then, and the days never seemed quite long enough 
 for all the pleasures I tried to squeeze into them. You 
 see, I was young, and had health to spare, and was 
 almost famous in a small way. Then men about town 
 and the boys from college used to fill the front rows 
 every night, and there were always suppers and 
 flowers and big dinners on Sunday nights. I was as 
 well known then as well, as Maizie Page is to-day." 
 
 Miss Cawthorne stopped and smiled up at Brandt. 
 There was a new light in the gray eyes he had never 
 seen before, and the blood had risen to her temples 
 and darkened the faded cheeks. Brandt saw for the 
 first time the likeness between the girl of the faded 
 photograph and the present character woman of the 
 Mogul Company. 
 
 181
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Please go on," he said. 
 
 "We stayed in New York almost a year, and near 
 the end of the season a manager named Hanson 
 he was a friend of mine whom I liked very much at 
 the time offered to make a star of me. You know 
 how that appeals to every actress. The difficulty was 
 to get a play that would suit me. I had some fine 
 ideas then, and refused to go into musical comedy, 
 which was the only thing I really could do. I insisted 
 it was to be straight drama. So at last we got hold of 
 a comedy through a play agent. It was called ' In the 
 Best Regulated Families,' and I think it was the 
 first and the last play your father ever wrote. We 
 liked it for two reasons it had one good scene, and 
 it was cheap. We knew that Mr. Brandt was rich 
 and wrote only for pleasure, so we got it for almost 
 nothing. We opened in Troy, and for a comedy it 
 turned out one of the most dire tragedies I have ever 
 known. The play was not so bad, but the company 
 was awful, and I was so nervous I didn't know 
 whether I was up stage or at home eating supper. 
 
 "When the performance was over I went back to 
 the hotel, and I think I really wanted to die The 
 182
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 manager, Hanson, came up to my room and told me 
 just how bad I had been, and he was pretty rough 
 about it, too. You see, he had lost everything he 
 owned, and he was sore. Besides that, he was a brute. 
 He swore at me for a while, and then then well, 
 he struck me." 
 
 The actress stopped talking, and rubbed her hand 
 slowly across her eyes, as if to shut out the memory 
 of that night twenty-five years before. Then she 
 glanced up at the young man standing at the fire- 
 place, looking down at her with grave, sympathetic 
 eyes. 
 
 "He struck me here," the actress began again, 
 pointing to her shoulder near the throat, "and then 
 he left me alone and went down stairs to talk to 
 your father about the play. He left me alone lying on 
 the bed, hurt and bruised, and my heart was break- 
 ing. And there I lay sobbing aloud and crying for the 
 old days back on Broadway and the good friends I 
 had had then the college boys and the suppers and 
 everything I loved. You see I was really only a girl 
 at the time, and I hadn't quite got used to the knocks 
 and bumps that came later. 
 183
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "I don't know how long I lay there crying, but 
 after a time I heard the door open, and your mother 
 came in. She was very young and very pretty. I had 
 never met her, but she had been pointed out to me 
 as your father's wife she was just a bride, then. 
 She had the next room to mine, and I suppose she 
 must have heard Hanson swearing and then my 
 sobs. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to com- 
 fort me about the play, and you can imagine it was 
 pretty hard for her, because she knew nothing about 
 plays, or actors either, I guess. And all the time she 
 kept her hand on the bruised place on my shoulder 
 where Hanson had struck me, just to pretend that 
 she didn't notice it. Anyhow, I went to sleep in her 
 arms, and when I woke the next morning she and 
 your father had gone back to Selbyville. They sent 
 me some flowers afterward, and I wrote a letter to 
 her; but I never saw them again." 
 
 Miss Cawthorne walked over to the window, and, 
 parting the lace curtains, stood for some moments 
 looking out on the scurrying snowflakes. Then she 
 turned back to her guest. 
 
 "And so, you see," she said, "when I heard them 
 184
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 gossiping about you at the theatre, and I learned 
 who you were, I wanted to meet you, because you 
 were the son of your mother, and of your father." 
 
 "And you don't know how I appreciate it," said 
 Brandt. "I'm awfully sorry I spoke as I did a little 
 while ago while you were talking of my friendship for 
 Miss Page. But, really, she seems such an unusually 
 nice girl to me. I don't know when I have met any 
 one who was sweeter or better bred in every way." 
 
 Miss Cawthorne nodded. "You're quite right 
 she is very nice, and very, very good to her people. 
 Do you know her mother?" 
 
 "I did meet her once, but it was just for a moment 
 at the stage door. It was so dark I don't suppose 
 I should know her again if I saw her." 
 
 While Brandt was talking, Miss Cawthorne leaned 
 against the window sash, looking down on the snow- 
 covered streets, deserted save for the black cab at 
 the door. 
 
 "Look, Mr. Brandt!" she said suddenly. "It is 
 
 clearing at last, and the sun is really coming out. 
 
 Isn't it beautiful ? I don't suppose that you would 
 
 care to take me up to Miss Page's now, would you ? 
 
 185
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 You see, I promised to loan her something for the 
 supper to-night, and I'm sure she would rather have 
 it before she goes to the theatre." 
 
 "I'd be only too glad," Brandt said with enthu- 
 siasm. "The electric can get us there in no time." 
 
 As they turned into West Forty-ninth Street Brandt 
 began to recognize the houses he had seen before 
 only at night when he had driven Miss Page home 
 after supper. "Now I begin to feel at home," he said. 
 "It's funny I have never been here in the daylight, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Miss Cawthorne, "in a way it is." 
 The cab stopped in front of a high brick apartment 
 house, and Miss Cawthorne and Brandt went up 
 into a narrow vestibule and looked for Miss Page's 
 name under one of the many brass letter boxes. 
 They found it at last, and in response to their ring 
 the catch of the front door clicked violently, and 
 they pushed on into a dark, narrow hallway. Miss 
 Cawthorne had been there before, so she led the 
 way to the winding stairway in the rear. The air was 
 stuffy and damp, and at the first step Brandt caught 
 186
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 his foot in a hole in the dirty, badly patched carpet. 
 Slowly they climbed five flights of twisting stairs. 
 At the landings, slatternly looking women and chil- 
 dren with dirty faces and bare legs came out to stare 
 at them in open-mouthed wonder; a man in his shirt 
 sleeves and without a collar stood at the door of his 
 apartment and looked them over with insolent curi- 
 osity, and a dog at his heels barked and snapped at 
 the actress's dress. At the fifth landing they found 
 Miss Page's mother waiting in semidarkness for her 
 unknown guests. A beautiful Pomeranian dog, 
 which Brandt had once owned, dashed out of the 
 doorway and leaped up, in an effort to kiss the hand 
 of its former master. At the moment, the little thor- 
 oughbred, with its lithe, trim legs and beautiful soft 
 coat, seemed to Brandt to be curiously out of place. 
 Mrs. Page led them through the narrow hallway 
 to the sitting-room, which was at the far end of the 
 flat, and then disappeared. A very stout old man sat 
 in a rocking chair by the window and read the even- 
 ing paper. He was in his shirt sleeves, and smoked 
 a heavy pipe, and rocked continuously. Just beyond 
 this room there was another smaller one, where they 
 187
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 found Maizie Page. She had been dozing on a lounge, 
 which had been arranged as a cozy corner, and she 
 received them sleepily and with evident surprise. 
 The walls of the room were for the most part covered 
 with a net, in the meshes of which had been arranged 
 many photographs of actresses and actors and of a few 
 who were not of the stage. There were many flags and 
 long streamers of nearly all the colleges, and tin horns 
 and great wooden rattles, decorated with varicolored 
 ribbons, and cheap fans and souvenir dolls from the 
 restaurants. From a window opening on a broad 
 court the afternoon sun fell in a broad, unbroken 
 shaft of soft orange light. Surrounded by this riot of 
 color, Miss Page, dressed in a pink kimono, contin- 
 ued for some moments to gaze with undisguised 
 wonderment at her guests. 
 
 "But how was it you came together?" she said at 
 last. "I didn't know you knew Arthur." 
 
 "I didn't until this afternoon," Miss Cawthorne 
 explained a little hurriedly. " He came to see me about 
 another matter, and it occurred to me you might 
 want to fix these buckles before you started for the 
 theatre, so I asked him to bring me up in his cab." 
 188
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 Miss Page was wide awake now, and as Miss 
 Cawthorne faltered through her speech, the young 
 girl looked directly into the older woman's eyes. "It 
 was good of you," she said. "You have the buckles 
 with you?" 
 
 Miss Cawthorne fumbled nervously with the clasp 
 of the reticule that she held in her hand, while Miss 
 Page stood waiting quietly, her thin, colorless lips 
 pressed into a straight line. At last the package con- 
 taining the buckles was found, and Miss Cawthorne 
 nervously gave it into Miss Page's hand. The girl 
 walked over to a closet, and, opening the door, 
 placed the package on a high shelf, which was littered 
 with many soiled silk slippers and a discarded sailor 
 hat. Against the wall of the shallow closet and on 
 some hooks on the inside of the door were several 
 filmy dresses and silk petticoats. In the daylight the 
 clothes seemed to look particularly unfresh, and 
 the tiny spangles and the embroidery very cheap 
 and tawdry. Miss Page looked over her shoulder 
 at her guests, and then pushed the door wide 
 open. 
 
 "There!" she said. "Do you see them, Arthur? 
 189
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Those are the Cinderella clothes that I wear after 
 dark." 
 
 From one of the hooks the girl pulled a white 
 batiste skirt and waist and flung them out in front of 
 her, so that they fell directly in the shaft of yellow 
 sunshine. The skirt was badly crumpled, and the 
 seam-binding of the waist was far from fresh. 
 
 "That," she said, "is the dress I am going to wear 
 to your party this evening. It doesn't look very well 
 now, but it'll be fine to-night under the gaslight, I 
 promise you." The girl walked to the doorway. 
 "Mother!" she called. "Mother, I want you to come 
 in here for a moment." 
 
 Mrs. Page's voice came indistinctly from a room 
 down the hallway. "I can't just now, dear." 
 
 "Yes," called the girl "I want you to come at 
 once; just as you are, please." 
 
 The mother came slowly down the hallway and 
 hesitated at the door, until her daughter took her 
 hand and led her into the sunlight. Her black hair, 
 streaked with gray, hung loosely about her bent 
 shoulders, the sleeves of her striped flannel wrapper 
 were rolled up above the elbows, and on her feet she 
 190
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 wore an old pair of woollen slippers. With one hand 
 she held the gaping, soiled wrapper together, and 
 with the other brushed loose strands of hair from her 
 eyes. 
 
 "You must pardon me, Mr. Brandt," she said. 
 " I've been in the kitchen getting the supper ready 
 my old man gets hungry pretty early." 
 
 "I'm very glad indeed to meet you," Brandt said. 
 
 Mrs. Page wiped her hand on her apron, made a 
 half bow, half courtesy, and shook her guest warmly 
 by the hand. Then she glanced at her daughter and 
 got a nod of permission to leave them. Miss Page 
 glanced into the next room where the old man was 
 smoking. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'd better not introduce you to my 
 father he's very busy reading." 
 
 And then the girl and her two guests, standing in 
 the centre of the room, looked one to the other and 
 for some moments remained silent. The visit and its 
 object, if object there had been, were accomplished, 
 and there seemed no reason now for staying on. It 
 was Miss Cawthorne who spoke first. 
 
 "It's been so nice to see you, Maizie. We must be 
 191
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 going now that is, if Mr. Brandt will take me home 
 again." 
 
 Brandt nodded. 
 
 "I'll see you to-night, dear," Miss Cawthorne 
 called back from the hallway. 
 
 For the moment Maizie Page and Brandt were 
 alone. 
 
 "Good -by," he said, shaking hands with her. 
 "It's been very good to have seen you in your own 
 home." 
 
 The girl, still holding his hand, looked up and tried 
 to smile through dimmed eyes. "I'm glad you liked 
 my home," she said simply. "I didn't think you 
 would. That's why I didn't ask you here before." 
 The girl half turned and looked about the little room, 
 gaudy with its cheap decorations at the faded pho- 
 tographs, the college flags, and the paper dolls, and 
 then she glanced beyond to the old man in his shirt 
 sleeves, smoking his pipe in the next room. 
 
 "Hurry up, Mr. Brandt!" Miss Cawthorne called 
 from the end of the hallway. 
 
 "Good-by," said Maizie Page. "I'll see you to- 
 night after the performance ? " 
 192
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 "Of course," he said, and raising her hand to his 
 lips, kissed the tips of her fingers. 
 
 Miss Cawthorne and Brandt settled back in the 
 cushions of the cab, and were far on their way down 
 town before either of them spoke. 
 
 " Did you enjoy your visit? " the actress said at last. 
 
 Brandt shrugged his shoulders. "Did you expect 
 me to enjoy it?" he asked. "Did you mean it as a 
 kindness to me?" 
 
 Miss Cawthorne looked straight ahead through 
 the window in the front of the hansom. "I did it for 
 you and for the girl I knew you didn't understand 
 the type I wanted you to start fair with her. Thanks 
 to men like yourself, she knows two kinds of life 
 you know only one." 
 
 "How did you know I didn't know about her 
 home?" 
 
 "I guessed it I've known a good many of that 
 type show business in New York is full of them." 
 
 "What is the type?" he asked. 
 
 "It's the type that the outside public can't believe 
 exists I mean the girl who is morally good, and 
 193
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 yet who accepts every kind of present from a man 
 except money, eats caviare at lunch and terrapin at 
 supper, and is lucky if she has bacon with her coffee 
 in the morning. They walk to the theatre at night 
 and drive home after supper in an electric cab, and 
 they live west of Eighth Avenue to save five dollars 
 in the month's rent." 
 
 "And what is the finish of that kind of life?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "The finish is that they usually marry the man 
 who plays the cymbals in the orchestra, or the chief 
 usher, or the assistant treasurer in the box office, or 
 a cousin of their mother's who is a widower with 
 three children and lives in Brooklyn." 
 
 "And then ?" asked Brandt. 
 
 "After they are married their husbands pawn the 
 jewels and everything else their admirers gave them, 
 except the photographs of the admirers themselves 
 which might seem careless, but isn't. That is because 
 the women don't care at all about the admirers who 
 used to give them violets, but are quite crazy about 
 their husbands who now give them black eyes." 
 
 They were nearly home, and for a moment the 
 194
 
 THE CROSS ROADS, NEW YORK 
 
 cab was blocked at the corner where Fifth Avenue 
 and Broadway cross at Twenty-third Street. 
 
 "New York is a wonderful city, just at this corner, 
 isn't it?" the actress ran on "just at this hour 
 especially, with all the crowds and the carriages and 
 the automobiles. It's fine! Did you ever hear of 
 Billy Straight?" 
 
 Brandt shook his head. 
 
 " Of course not he was before your day. Billy was 
 a great friend of mine. He called this corner 'The 
 Crossroads/ and he used to tell a funny story about 
 his father stopping here late one evening, just after 
 he had come home to live after leaving college, and 
 showing him the two streets Fifth Avenue all dark 
 and gloomy there were brownstone dwellings then 
 right down to Twenty-sixth Street and then he 
 pointed up Broadway, all ablaze with lights, and the 
 doors wide open. 'You can take your choice, my boy,' 
 the old man said 'both roads are open to you. It's 
 the question every kid with money and a position 
 has got to decide for himself in New York and 
 every other town, I guess, too, only the game is bigger 
 here and harder to fight.' " 
 
 195
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 The cab had started again, and they were nearing 
 Miss Cawthorne's home. 
 
 "Well," said the young man, "what road did 
 Billy take?" 
 
 The actress smiled. "He started up the avenue all 
 right enough; but he turned off to Broadway one 
 night, and he never got back again. They never do." 
 
 The cab came to a sudden stop at Miss Caw- 
 thorne's door. "Poor old Billy!" said the woman. 
 
 Brandt helped her out of the hansom. " Good-by, 
 Miss Cawthorne. It was very kind of you to ask me 
 to come to see you. Thank you for the visit and the 
 story about The Crossroads, too." 
 
 The actress smiled, and held out her hand. "You 
 mustn't mention that," she said. " I didn't expect or 
 want you to thank me; I somehow felt that I owed it 
 to your mother. We didn't have much in common 
 and we led very different kinds of lives, but I guess 
 all old women feel pretty much the same way about 
 some things. I'm almost sure that she would have 
 thanked me Good-night." 
 
 196
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 IT was about seven o'clock in the evening when I 
 returned to my apartment and found the telegram: 
 It read: 
 
 Meet me if possible at Begum to-night, ten-thirty. Im- 
 portant. 
 
 WALTER WAINRIGHT. 
 
 My friend Wainwright might have been a great 
 financier, or a famous author, or an ambassador to 
 a European court, or he might have been pretty much 
 anything else that required an extremely quick and 
 creative intelligence; but he was, and is, a theatrical 
 manager. 
 
 When I first entered the theatre that night in re- 
 sponse to his telegram, I found the second act of 
 "The Begum of Bo" well under way, and Wain- 
 wright leaning on the railing at the rear of the orches- 
 tra seats. With a pained expression he was gazing at 
 199
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the stage. "Comedians like those," he said, "should 
 be arrested for grand larceny. They steal their stuff 
 from real actors, and then rob the public. Eh ?" 
 
 I nodded. "What did you want ?" I asked. 
 
 Wainwright pressed his lips into a straight line 
 and blinked his eyes as if his brain was confused 
 with many thoughts. "I'm very busy," he said; "but 
 I think you can help me a good deal. Have you any- 
 thing to do for the next half hour ? " 
 
 "Nothing," I said, "for several half hours." 
 "That's good that's good," he mumbled, his 
 mind still apparently active with many thoughts. 
 "If you will go back now on the stage and look on 
 the prompt side, just in front of the switchboard, 
 you will see a beautiful lady in street costume. You 
 may think it's a tent, with flowers trailing over it; 
 but it's not that's her hat and under it you will 
 see a really beautiful lady. Tell her I said that she 
 was to follow you, and you will probably find her 
 fairly docile. Lead her out of the stage door, and 
 there you will see a closed hack with a couple of 
 dress-suit cases and a driver in front. Tell the 
 driver to take you to the Forty-second Street 
 200
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 station, and when you arrive pay the cabby his 
 fare and lead the girl to gate number twelve. Say 
 'Company' to the ticket man, and the girl will do 
 the rest." 
 
 "And where do you come in ?" I asked. 
 
 "I come in before the train starts don't worry." 
 
 "All right," I said, and started for the little door 
 that leads from the auditorium to the stage. There 
 certainly was a girl standing in front of the switch- 
 board on the prompt side, and she wore a spreading 
 hat with a great many flowers on it. It was with some 
 little difficulty that I pushed my way through a small 
 army of short-skirted flower-girls and armored war- 
 riors with very prickly tin spears, who were waiting 
 to go on the stage. At last I reached the side of the 
 lady and bowed in my most respectful manner. 
 
 "Pardon me, madam," I apologized, "but Mr. 
 Wain wright says that you are to come with me." 
 
 The girl looked up at me, I thought a little wist- 
 fully, and without more ado took my arm. 
 
 Slowly we picked our way through the mob of 
 flower-girls and warriors, and at last reached the 
 door leading to the street. There stood the cab with 
 201
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the suit cases in front: so I put the lady in and told 
 the driver to take us with all speed to the Grand 
 Central station. It is seldom I meet a lady of whom 
 I know absolutely nothing I had even forgotten to 
 ask Wainwright her name. For the first time, I be- 
 lieve, in my life I found conversation most difficult; 
 so I casually remarked, "It's a very bad night for 
 such a beautiful hat." 
 
 At this the girl turned deliberately from me and 
 stared out of the window, which struck me as pecu- 
 liarly uncomplimentary, as she could see nothing but 
 the deserted, storm-swept streets. Fortunately, we 
 had not very far to go, and my only other remark 
 was, I believe, "Ah, here we are!" 
 
 I helped the lady to alight, paid the cabman, and, 
 seizing a suit case in either hand, led her through the 
 station to gate Number Twelve. 
 
 "Company," said I to the guard at the gate, and 
 passed on. 
 
 At this point a middle-aged individual, having 
 
 rather the appearance of a plain-clothes man from 
 
 police head-quarters, respectfully bowed to the lady, 
 
 and relieved me of the dress-suit cases. Preceding 
 
 202
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 us to a sleeping car, he opened the door of a compart- 
 ment, and, putting down the suit cases, delivered 
 himself of a profound salaam and bowed himself 
 away. No sooner had he left us than the spirits of 
 the lady seemed at once to revive. She took off the 
 large hat and showed a wonderful mass of golden 
 brown hair, which was worn high over her broad 
 clear forehead. 
 
 "Come in," she said, turning to me as I stood 
 hesitating in the doorway. 
 
 For some moments we sat in the compartment in 
 silence, regarding each other with much apparent 
 curiosity and amusement. 
 
 "Why have I never seen you before?" I asked at 
 last, and it really seemed to me then as if I should 
 have known her always. At the moment I could not 
 understand how a girl with such beauty and a per- 
 sonality that could take possession of me as hers had 
 done should not be known to every one. 
 
 "You have seen me before on the stage," she said, 
 " I have often seen you." 
 
 "It doesn't seem quite possible." I protested. 
 
 "On the contrary, almost every one in the com- 
 203
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 pany at least knew who you were. I was quite un- 
 known to fame then, and am now, and shall be until 
 Wednesday." 
 
 "What!" I said; but I said no more, for I felt the 
 car give a sudden jolt and then move evenly forward 
 on its way out of the station. I jumped to my feet 
 and turned to the door; but while I had been talking 
 to my beautiful friend some one had closed it, and 
 when I tried the knob I found that it had been 
 locked as well. I turned back to the girl and found 
 her looking at me with crinkled brow and the tips of 
 her mouth pointed upward in an amused smile. I re- 
 gained my composure as well as I could and started 
 toward the electric button. 
 
 "Apparently we are locked in," I said cheerfully. 
 
 "Apparently," she replied. "It's not worth while 
 ringing the bell no one will come." 
 
 I sat down and smiled back at her smiling eyes. 
 "Am I kidnapped ?" I asked. 
 
 At that moment there was a knock at the door. 
 "There is Wainwright," she said; "I think I'll let 
 him explain." 
 
 The door opened, and Wainwright came in. He 
 204
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 was actually grinning at me, and apparently per- 
 fectly delighted with himself. 
 
 "Well," I asked, "is this your idea of a joke?" 
 
 He sat down at the end of the long lounge opposite 
 me and tapped the end of his boot with the ferule 
 of his cane. 
 
 "Not a joke at all," he said briskly "business, 
 theatrical business. Now listen sharply, please, be- 
 cause I have to get off at One Hundred and Twenty- 
 fifth Street, and of course, if you wish to get off with 
 me I can't prevent you. Have you met Miss Aber- 
 crombie?" 
 
 I bowed in the direction of the lady. "I have had the 
 honor of chatting with her for some few moments." 
 
 Wainwright stopped grinning and suddenly be- 
 came serious that is, as serious as he ever could be. 
 "Miss Abercrombie Alice Abercrombie is a find 
 of mine; I discovered her playing a small part in one 
 of my own comic-opera companies and was attracted 
 by her beauty, and then by her unusual intelligence. 
 I decided then that I would make her the greatest 
 woman star in America. For two years I have made 
 her work in road companies, and have spent large 
 205
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 sums in having her taught how to sing and dance; 
 all of the other accomplishments she already had. 
 Now I think she is ready to star. I have booked her 
 in 'The Princess Popinjay,' beginning next Wednes- 
 day, for ten days of one-night stands before she 
 opens at Denver. I intend to have her make a sensa- 
 tion out there, and come to New York this spring 
 with the rumor of a Western furore back of her. She 
 is going to do in comic opera what Mary Anderson 
 did in Shakespeare thirty years ago, or I shall miss 
 my guess and lose a great deal of money." 
 
 "And where do I come in ?" I asked. 
 
 "You must help create the furore. At some time in 
 the career of every great male star, and it usually 
 happened when his business was very bad, he has 
 been pursued by a beautiful veiled lady, and the 
 same thing applies to every woman star, only the 
 mysterious stranger was a man. Now you are to be 
 the mysterious stranger, only with a few new varia- 
 tions. I chose you for the part because you have a 
 particularly showy wardrobe and a sense of humor. 
 I have had the press agent ahead of the show feature 
 you about as prominently as Miss Abercrombie. In 
 206
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 some towns you will find yourself referred to as a 
 well-known American iron king, sometimes as an 
 Austrian count, and again as a titled Englishman. 
 If you read the local papers in the towns you visit, 
 you will find your picture prominently displayed." 
 
 "My picture!" I gasped. "I haven't had my pho- 
 tograph taken for twenty years!" 
 
 "Please don't interrupt," said Wainwright 
 "we're out of the tunnel already. The photographs 
 are some I found in my office mostly of bad actors 
 looking for a job." 
 
 "And this wardrobe you are pleased to speak of so 
 flatteringly?" I demanded. 
 
 "I telephoned your man about that while you 
 were out dining this evening. It is all in the state 
 room in the next car. By referring to the morning 
 papers in each town, you can find out whether you 
 are an Austrian count, titled Englishman, or plain 
 American iron magnate and then you can register 
 as such and dress accordingly. You will, of course, 
 be interviewed by the local papers, and must express 
 yourself freely. Do you know anything about Aus- 
 tria?" 
 
 207
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Nothing," I said. 
 
 "Well, the main street of Vienna is called 'The 
 Ringstrasse,' and the parliament is generally known 
 as the Reichsrath. You will also probably be asked 
 about the politics at home. Of course you know all 
 about England. I forget just what county your fam- 
 ily came from over there; but here you are naturally 
 a Pittsburger, where you live with your folks, who 
 hate your devotion to Miss Abercrombie, the beauti- 
 ful actress." 
 
 "Pardon me," I said; "but why could you not 
 have explained all this to me at supper last night ? " 
 
 "Perfectly simple," he replied suavely. "Because, 
 surrounded as you were then by all the flesh-pots of 
 town, you would have refused. Under existing con- 
 ditions, how can you?" and he bowed low to Miss 
 Abercrombie. 
 
 "Pardon me again," I asked; "but am I supposed 
 to know the lady ? " 
 
 "Certainly," said Wainwright a little peevishly at 
 
 my stupidity. "You must be seen dining with her 
 
 occasionally, and always with sad, hungry eyes. You 
 
 see, she doesn't really like you : she is wedded to her 
 
 208
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 art. At night you must sit in an upper stage box 
 and " 
 
 "Look sad and hungry?" I suggested. 
 
 "That's it sad and hungry." 
 
 "How about my engagements in town for the 
 next two weeks?" 
 
 "That's all right. Wire your servant to advise your 
 friends that you've been called away on important 
 business. Understand, don't you wire direct, or some 
 one might know where you are. I want you to lose 
 yourself entirely. And above all be a sport don't 
 lose your sense of humor entirely. Think of being 
 the only man in New York I thought worth kid- 
 napping! You are always complaining about the 
 dulness of the long days and the adventureless 
 nights. Nowyou've got all the adventure you'll want." 
 
 The train gradually began to slow down. Wain- 
 wright jumped up and opened the door of the com- 
 partment. "Here's Harlem, and I must leave you. 
 And, I say, don't forget to look me up when you get 
 back. I really want to hear what you think of the 
 play. Good-by, children." 
 
 I, too, jumped to my feet. "Why don't you go 
 209
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 yourself?" I shouted at him somewhat ungallantly 
 just as the train came to a full stop. 
 
 "No!" he said. "I couldn't stand that route, not 
 even with Alice along." He waved his cane at us, the 
 door slammed in my face, and I heard him chuckling 
 loudly as he hurried by the compartment on his way 
 to the platform. I turned and looked at the raised 
 eyebrows and big searching eyes of the actress look- 
 ing into my own. 
 
 "And you didn't want to go," she said very slowly; 
 "really, did you?" 
 
 Our train was moving again so I sat down on the 
 edge of the green velvet lounge and looked beyond 
 her out of the blurred window pane at the glistening 
 station platform and the slowly passing houses with 
 their dripping roofs. Through my mind there flashed 
 the thought of many pleasant things I had promised 
 myself for the next two weeks. Then I turned back to 
 the girl and found her looking at me as I knew she 
 would look, just as I know the photograph of her on 
 the mantel back of me is looking at me now. 
 
 "Of course I wanted to come," I said; "but really 
 that doesn't make much difference, because when 
 210
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 you open your eyes wide and crinkle your brow, I 
 would follow you, I think, to almost any place. I'm 
 willing to admit that I'm kidnapped; but by a beau- 
 tiful woman, not by any fool trick of Wainwright." 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders, smiled, and 
 leaned back against the cushions in the corner of 
 the compartment. 
 
 " Good-night," I said, as I rose from the lounge. 
 
 She nodded to me and, still smiling, folded her 
 arms. 
 
 I found the manager in the next car, and he 
 greeted me with the same servile grin with which he 
 had met us at the train gate. 
 
 "I'm Ben Adler," he said. "I'm travelling with the 
 show, and my instructions are to make you as com- 
 fortable as possible." 
 
 "It seems to me," I answered somewhat crisply, 
 "that if you follow your instructions, you ought to 
 make me pretty uncomfortable, with your Austrian 
 counts and titled Englishmen and your interviews. 
 Where do I sleep, anyhow ? Is this a special train ?" 
 
 Adler grinned. "Of course it's a special train 
 we're travelling in great style. Your compartment is 
 211
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 at the end of this car; but there's a cold lunch up 
 ahead. Perhaps you would like to meet some of the 
 company?" 
 
 I was nervous and far from sleepy; so I followed 
 him to the forward car, which was a day coach. It 
 was filled with perhaps thirty women and about 
 half as many men. In the aisle there was a long case 
 partly filled with bottles of stout and beer, and on 
 one of the seats there was a tray of thick sandwiches. 
 Nearly all of the men were smoking cigars or pipes, 
 and a few of the women cigarettes. The car was 
 stuffy and hot and the smoke so thick that it was 
 difficult at first to recognize the faces about me. A 
 show girl whom I once had met at supper greeted 
 me cordially. 
 
 "It's funny to see you here," she said. "I didn't 
 know Wainwright was with the show." 
 
 "He's not," Adler interrupted; "the gentleman's 
 a friend of Miss Abercrombie. He's going with us 
 as far as Denver." 
 
 "My word!" said the show girl. "Shake hands 
 with my chum, Miss Armstrong. Rita, wake up 
 you're not in Philadelphia!" 
 212
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 Miss Armstrong was a large, heavy-eyed girl 
 dressed in a shirtwaist and she wore a great deal of 
 cheap jewelry. " Pleased to meet you," she mumbled, 
 pulling herself out of the hot plush seat. "What 
 name, please?" 
 
 "Come on," interrupted Adler. "I want you to 
 meet some of the principals." 
 
 "Just fancy!" said Miss Armstrong. "Really, you 
 know, we can't all be principals." Then she yawned 
 and snuggled back into the corner to resume her in- 
 terrupted doze. 
 
 As we walked down the aisle, the girls lying back 
 in the seats eyed us with a certain bovine interest, 
 and those who were sufficiently awake and not too 
 engrossed with the sandwiches commented audibly 
 on the honor of my unexpected presence. At the far 
 end of the car we found a party of four two men 
 and two women playing hearts. There was Baker, 
 who I learned afterward was the second comedian, 
 and who imagined that he ought to be continually 
 comic off as well as on the stage; Carroll, who in the 
 opera played the lover lieutenant in the inevitable 
 white duck uniform, and who was a third-class Eng- 
 213
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 lishman; Miss Belden, the rough soubrette of the 
 company; and a very young and pretty girl named 
 Ryan, who played a small part, and who, it seemed 
 to me, rather outclassed her present company. They 
 stopped playing cards long enough to shake hands 
 with me and express their pleasure that I was to be 
 of the party for so long a time. Miss Belden crowded 
 over toward Carroll and gave me a nodded invitation 
 to sit on the arm of the chair next to her. 
 
 "Make my friend comfortable," said Adler, and 
 he left us. The card players resumed their game. A 
 small, black-eyed chorus girl moved over from her 
 place across the aisle and sat on the arm of the seat 
 opposite me and next to Baker. "Have some?" she 
 said, holding out a tumbler half filled with beer; but 
 I thanked her and declined. 
 
 "Back, back, little one!" Baker growled. "Take 
 your arm off the back of my seat, and don't butt in ! " 
 
 "What are you playing?" said the girl without 
 moving. 
 
 "Hearts at a dollar a point." 
 
 "My!" said the chorus girl. "Ain't it wonderful 
 how you Broadway comedians can gamble on forty 
 214
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 a week ! Did you hear the name of that town we open 
 at ? It's a flag station on a trolley line, I think." 
 
 "Prescott's a good town," said Miss Ryan. "Miss 
 Abercrombie has played there before." 
 
 "Is it possible?" said the chorus girl. "I suppose 
 they'll meet her with a brass band, and the town con- 
 stable will make a speech and give her a dollar watch 
 from the stage. It's great to be an established star." 
 
 "She's a friend of this gentleman here," said Miss 
 Belden, sorting her cards. 
 
 The chorus girl looked at me with apparently re- 
 newed interest and smiled her apology. "I guess I'm 
 out of my set. Me for bed. Good-night, all!" 
 
 The car had become very quiet now, as all the 
 women had either curled upon the plush seats or gone 
 to their berths in the other cars. The card players 
 gambled on in silence, and as it seemed this might 
 continue indefinitely, I, too, bade them good-night 
 and went to my compartment. 
 
 When the porter called me the next day he an- 
 nounced that they had put on a restaurant car; and 
 so when I was dressed I went out and ordered my 
 breakfast. It was too early for the members of the 
 215
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 company to be about, and I found myself quite alone. 
 We had already travelled far from home, and were 
 racing through what was, at least to me, a very new 
 and beautiful country. The car itself was fresh, and 
 the air was clean and a most pleasant contrast to the 
 day coach of the night before. Outside it was a won- 
 derful cloudless morning in early January, and under 
 the blue sky the trees, dripping with icicles, shim- 
 mered and sparkled in the morning sun, and the 
 land stretched out as one great field of unbroken 
 snow. 
 
 Before my breakfast had been served Alice Aber- 
 crombie came in and sat down on the other side of 
 my little table. She was dressed in a simple shirtwaist 
 and a short cloth skirt, and her eyes were as bright 
 and her skin as clear and fresh as the winter day itself . 
 
 "Good-morning. And what do you think of 
 trouping?" she said, reaching out her hand to me 
 across the table. 
 
 "To be candid," I replied, "it apparently varies 
 more or less. I had the pleasure of meeting the com- 
 pany after I left you last night, and the car they were 
 in seems to have left rather unpleasant recollections 
 216
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 of flat beer and stale smoke. But this is fine, isn't it ? 
 What are you going to have for breakfast ? " 
 
 Miss Abercrombie looked out of the window at the 
 stretches of glistening snow, and the smile vanished. 
 "I haven't met many of the chorus," she said. "I 
 thought they seemed a rather good sort at rehearsal." 
 
 "I didn't refer to the company," I interrupted 
 "I only said that the car was stuffy. As a matter of 
 fact, they seemed rather too engrossed in their game 
 of cards last night for me to interrupt. I thought Miss 
 Ryan very pretty to look at." 
 
 Miss Abercrombie raised her eyebrows. "I sup- 
 pose she is pretty." 
 
 "Did you ever travel like that ?" I asked, nodding 
 to the forward car. 
 
 "You ask such simple, direct questions," she said. 
 "If you mean did I ever travel in day coaches with 
 the company, I certainly did. Personally, I am not 
 partial to cards, and I prefer clear air to tobacco 
 smoke; but one can read a good book, even a helpful 
 book, and at the same time breathe bad air. I never 
 had any choice this is the first time I ever had a 
 compartment in a sleeping car." 
 217
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "You weren't always in this business ?" I said. 
 
 The girl shook her head. "You're so naif that I 
 really can't help answering you. No, my life had 
 nothing to do with the stage until the last few years; 
 but a few years is long enough to make one appre- 
 ciate the drawing-room on a Pullman. It has all the 
 privacy of the hall bedroom in my boarding-house on 
 Forty-eighth Street, and the furnishing is wonderfully 
 better." 
 
 "But you prefer the hall bedroom and and 
 Broadway ? " 
 
 The girl looked up sharply, and her big eyes 
 flashed at me. "I didn't say anything about Broad- 
 way there are many other streets in New York, al- 
 though most men think because a woman is on the 
 stage that she doesn't know it." 
 
 "I am sorry," I said, and I meant it. 
 
 Miss Abercrombie shrugged her shoulders. "There 
 are other streets," she said, "and there are other 
 restaurants than Martin's and Rector's, and there 
 are other places to take afternoon tea than the Wal- 
 dorf and the Plaza. For instance, there is the hall 
 bedroom I was talking about on Forty-eighth Street, 
 218
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 away over on the West Side, where you can get a cup 
 of tea. The kettle is made of tin and badly dented, 
 and the cups are chipped and the oil lamp smokes; 
 but it doesn't smell of musk, and one is not wedged 
 in by a hundred befurred and bevioleted ladies from 
 the upper West Side. You probably wouldn't care for 
 the room, because it's different different from what 
 you know and different from what you would expect. 
 The carpet is ragged and full of holes; but I love 
 every hole in it. There is also a rip in the seat of the 
 rocking-chair, and everything sags, even the bed; 
 but I have slept there so long that every bump and 
 every billow of it I regard as an old friend." 
 
 "It must be a wonderful room," I said, "to have 
 you care for it as you do. What else is there?" 
 
 The girl pushed her plate away from her and 
 talked on. "Well, as a matter of fact, there isn't 
 much else. There are some photographs which I take 
 away on the road, and a shelf of books that a few 
 men sent me who know that there are shops in New 
 York where you can buy something else besides 
 American beauties and a bunch of violets with 
 purple tassels." 
 
 219
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "And now that you are a star," I asked, "you will 
 go back to Forty-eighth Street?" 
 
 The girl rested the tips of her fingers of both hands 
 before her on the edge of the table and drew back in 
 her chair. She looked at me with wide-open eyes, as 
 if my question had suggested all the changes that 
 were to come with her new life. 
 
 "No," she said, "I can't go back there. I'll have 
 to go to an apartment hotel, and eat in a dining- 
 room with palms and mirrors won't I ? and have 
 my meals at regular hours, and build up my health 
 that the quick lunches and the all-night restaurants 
 broke down long ago." 
 
 "As bad as that?" I asked. 
 
 "You don't know what the road life is I mean 
 to live it, year in and year out. It isn't the acting; but 
 it's the everlasting travel and the dressing in dirty 
 damp rooms and the eating when you get the chance 
 sometimes starving just because there is no place 
 to eat. And then, when our digestion is gone, and the 
 very life has been sapped out of us, somebody writes 
 us a song or a wonderful part, and we make a hit, 
 and they turn the spotlight on us, and give us a draw-
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 ing-room in a sleeping car, and a maid, and a cab 
 to the hotel." 
 
 "But there are the helpful books that you admit 
 can be read in smoking cars, and there is always the 
 prospect of New York and the friends waiting for 
 you there." 
 
 The girl stared at me and shook her head. "But 
 the friends don't always wait. They forget us in time, 
 because they find new friends; and then we wish we 
 were back on the road again with our own our own, 
 do you understand; not the chance acquaintance, 
 but the women and men we work and live and play 
 with." 
 
 "Your own ?" I repeated. 
 
 "Yes, my own. There are no outsiders in this 
 business. You must be in it, and of it, or you can't 
 exist in it. It's a life all of itself, and down in our 
 hearts we love it." 
 
 "Notwithstanding," I said, "I never met any one 
 on the stage just like you. You're well, you're dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 The girl looked at me evenly in the eyes and 
 smiled. "Every one is different. Did you ever know 
 221
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 any woman in any walk of life who was like any 
 other woman ? I may dress differently from some of 
 those girls you saw last night, and may live differently, 
 and may read books instead of the evening papers; 
 but we all belong just as much " 
 
 "Just as much," I interrupted, "as I don't 
 belong." 
 
 "Just as much," she repeated, "as you don't and 
 can't belong." Miss Abercrombie smiled and rose 
 from the table. "Here are some of your friends of last 
 night. Come and see me later on in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 She stepped aside to let Baker, the second come- 
 dian, go by, and as she did so he patted her famil- 
 iarly on the shoulder and gave her arm a gentle 
 squeeze. 
 
 "Good-morning, little girl," he said genially. 
 
 She followed him with her eyes down the aisle and 
 then turned to me, crinkled her brow, and smiled. 
 "You see," she said, "we are one people. Come back 
 and see me soon, Mr. Outsider. Don't forget you are 
 here as my professional admirer, not as Miss Ryan's, 
 or some of those wonderful show girls."
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 Later I went back to visit Miss Abercrombie; and 
 there it was that I spent most of that day and the 
 next day, for our journey was a long one. 
 
 In a way, I think that perhaps those days were the 
 best of any journey that I can remember now. 
 
 Between us there was no word of shop or home 
 or work; just the talk of a girl who had read, and 
 read very well, a girl to whom hard experience had 
 given a big sane view of life, a girl who had become 
 a philosopher in her own right. She had been talking 
 to me once of the early French dramatists and the 
 effect they had had on the playwrights of to-day, 
 and her views, like all her views, were at least indi- 
 vidual. When she had finished, I looked down at the 
 tip of her shoe. 
 
 "Is that the toe of the boot of the well-known 
 dancing soubrette, Alice Abercrombie?" I asked. 
 
 "Wait till you see me Wednesday night," she said, 
 "and I'll show you a dance! Much more interesting 
 than Racine, I promise you." 
 
 For the greater part of those two days we were by 
 ourselves; but occasionally we received visits from 
 Adler, who forever talked of the stars he had man- 
 223
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 aged and their eccentricities. Marie Belden, the 
 soubrette, and Altha Ryan and Carroll and Baker, 
 too, came into the drawing-room several times; but 
 these visits for the most part were short and pro- 
 ductive only of sighs of regret for Broadway and the 
 other haunts of the actors' pet city. 
 
 When I awoke on the last morning of our journey 
 I found that the train was side tracked at Prescott; 
 and from my window I could see that the real work 
 of the tour of "The Princess Popinjay" had begun. 
 Long drays were backed up to the cars for the scen- 
 ery, and heavy express wagons were carting away 
 the costume trunks and crates of properties. Youths 
 whom I had seen lolling about the train or playing 
 poker with the chorus girls had suddenly become 
 galvanized into men of authority, and were quietly 
 but surely bringing order out of what seemed to me 
 the most hopeless chaos. Above it all Ben Adler 
 ruled supreme. One moment he was giving direc- 
 tions as to how to load a particularly heavy piece of 
 scenery, and the next with a Chesterfieldian grace 
 was conducting a show girl to a hotel omnibus. In the 
 midst of it all he seemed to remember me; for he 
 224
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 came dashing into the car and knocked on the door 
 of my compartment. 
 
 "Don't forget, you are to be the iron magnate 
 to-day," he said. "You'll find a room engaged for 
 you at the Holter House in the name of Henry Speed. 
 Miss Abercrombie will be ready as soon as you are. 
 You're to take her up in a sleigh. It's something of a 
 drive to the town." 
 
 I had seen a few Pittsburg millionaires at the 
 Holland House, and could not remember that there 
 was anything particularly distinctive about their 
 dress; but I picked out a particularly lively gray 
 waistcoat with a black tape binding, and with this 
 and a pair of white spats felt that I rather looked the 
 part. Alice Abercrombie joined me, and a moment 
 later we were racing along the country road that led 
 to the town. 
 
 "Fine, Alice!" said I. It was the first time that I 
 had called her Alice; but I thought that the condi- 
 tions excused it. 
 
 "Alice!" she repeated, and crinkled her brow and 
 pointed the tips of her mouth in the same inscrutable 
 smile. 
 
 225
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Yes, Alice," I said, and being in a sleigh on a de- 
 serted road on a wonderful morning in January, I 
 took her gloved hand in mine, and raising it to my 
 lips kissed the tips of her fingers. The girl slowly 
 withdrew her hand from mine and settled back in 
 the cushions of the sleigh. Her cheeks were flushed 
 with the sharp morning air; but the smile went out 
 of her eyes, and for the rest of our little ride she 
 looked away from me and out at the snow-covered 
 fields. 
 
 We separated at the hotel and I went to my room 
 to be interviewed by the reporter of the only evening 
 newspaper. I talked of the Pittsburg art gallery, 
 which I never had seen, and the Pittsburg orchestra, 
 which I never had heard, and even spoke encourag- 
 ingly of preferred steel, which I never owned ; but at 
 mention of the tender mission which brought me to 
 Prescott I blushed, but refused to talk, and with a 
 few laudatory words on the beauty of the town I al- 
 lowed my reporter friend to depart. Later I went 
 down to the lobby of the hotel, where I found the 
 men of the company sitting about and I asked them 
 into the cafe, where we drank to the success of the 
 226
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 new play. Afterwards I lunched with Carroll and 
 Altha Ryan and for some time we talked as we 
 three had always talked of New York. 
 
 "I suppose this amuses you?" Carroll said. 
 
 "Of course," I replied; "it's a new story to me. 
 I like the idea of new towns and new faces." 
 
 Carroll nodded. "I suppose it was like that to me 
 once; but I can't remember it. New towns don't mean 
 anything to me any more. Do they to you, Altha ? " 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 "There is just a depot," he went on, "and a hotel 
 and an 'opry house,' and then there's another depot 
 and a hotel and an 'opry house.' The people are all 
 alike; they belong to the town, and you don't. You're 
 'the troupe,' and you come and go like a snow that 
 lasts over one night. The people are nothing to you, 
 and you are nothing to them. If you haven't got 
 friends in the company, Heaven help you!" 
 
 "That's right, Jim," said the girl; "it's 'the 
 troupe' or nothing." 
 
 "Well," I interrupted, smiling, "personally I like 
 'the troupe.' I only wish you were all as satisfied as 
 I am." 
 
 227
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Oh, it's all right with you," Carroll said. "You 
 don't really belong to 'the troupe.' You can leave 
 whenever you want to and go back to the white 
 lights of Broadway. Bless them !" 
 
 And then Adler came to our table and told Carroll 
 and Miss Ryan to hurry over to the theatre for re- 
 hearsal, and I was left alone again to wonder if I was 
 always to be an outsider. 
 
 Half-past eight found me seated alone in the 
 upper stage box at the first performance of "The 
 Princess Popinjay" and the first appearance as a 
 star of Miss Alice Abercrombie. From the rise of the 
 first curtain the opera went with a swing and a dash 
 that was extraordinary. Wainwright makes few 
 mistakes, and this time apparently he had left no 
 loop-hole for failure to creep in. In a misty sort of 
 way I can remember Altha Ryan and Baker singing 
 many verses of a duet, and Carroll looking very well 
 in his white duck suit and a sword clashing at his 
 side. Many of the girls, too, whom I had formerly 
 known on the train in shirtwaists and short skirts, 
 I recognized now as wonderfully beautiful daughters 
 of a travelling English millionaire or in the black
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 tight-fitting dresses of vendeuses in a Paris mil- 
 linery shop. 
 
 But what I saw distinctly, and it was what every 
 one else in that crowded audience recognized, was 
 the sweeping success of Alice Abercrombie. She, too, 
 had allowed for no chance of failure. To that per- 
 formance she had brought the result of years of hard 
 work and the training of the best masters. To one end 
 she had toiled unceasingly, breaking down the bar- 
 riers as she met them, and when the great test came 
 she rose to it and carried everything before her. It 
 was at the end of the second act that she achieved her 
 greatest tirumph. Again and again she was called 
 before the curtain, until it seemed there would be 
 no end to it. I looked down from my box at the new 
 star, and once, I think, she looked up at me; but I 
 remember that everything was blurred by the direct 
 rays of the footlights. I turned and stared at the 
 mass of faces below me, and my one thought was of 
 myself that for two days this girl had been quite 
 alone alone with me, with me! 
 
 And then it seemed as if I could stand the noise 
 no longer, and so I hurried down the staircase that
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 led from my box to the little door that opened on to 
 the stage. I pushed my way through a crowd of ex- 
 cited, chattering chorus girls and ran up an iron 
 staircase that led to the star's dressing-room. Just 
 outside of this room there was a small -platform that 
 extended to the proscenium arch and was used by 
 the man who had charge of the colored lights. The 
 platform was vacant for the moment, and so I walked 
 out on it and peered over the railing, that I might 
 see Miss Abercrombie go before the curtain again. 
 
 And then directly back of me I heard her voice. 
 She and Baker were standing on the landing in front 
 of her dressing-room, and while I could see them 
 they did not notice me, because there were several 
 bunchlight stands between us. Apparently she had 
 stopped him on his way to his room on the floor 
 above. 
 
 "You'd better go back, little one," I heard him 
 say, and he nodded toward the audience. "They 
 seem to want you out there bad. It sounds good for 
 several calls yet." 
 
 And it really sounded to me as if the enthusiasm 
 of the audience was greater than it had been at any 
 230
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 time. For a moment she stood there flushed and 
 panting, her big eyes all afire with the excitement of 
 her triumph. After all, this was the moment of her 
 life, for which she had waited and planned so long. 
 There would be other successes and other triumphs; 
 but there could be only one first triumph. 
 
 "You'd better take the call," Baker urged, and 
 started on toward his own room ; but the girl reached 
 out her white arm and, taking him by the shoulder, 
 swung him back so that he faced her again. 
 
 "What do I care about their noise? What do I 
 care about them?" she gasped. "What I want to 
 know is if you love me me, do you understand, 
 and not that Altha Ryan girl ? " 
 
 I do not know what Baker said or did, because the 
 hundreds of electric lights all about the stage seemed 
 to flare up suddenly, and I steadied myself by 
 holding tight to the iron railing at my side, and 
 looked away from them and down on the cleared 
 stage. 
 
 A few minutes later I knocked at her door, and 
 she told me that I might come in. She was standing 
 in front of her mirror, her knuckles resting on the 
 231
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 dressing-table in front of her. As I spoke she did not 
 take her eyes from those in the looking-glass. 
 
 "I've come to say good-by," I said; "I have de- 
 cided to go back to New York. Quite unintentionally 
 I heard you talking just now to Baker. When you 
 said that I didn't belong that I was only an out- 
 sider I could not understand exactly. That was 
 probably because I didn't want to; but I do now. 
 I am leaving you with your own people. Good-by." 
 
 The girl inclined her head very slightly, and I left 
 her just as I had found her, still looking into the 
 mirror. 
 
 In a drawer of my desk at home there is a little 
 folder, and on the cover it says, " Tour of the Prin- 
 cess Popinjay Company," and inside there is a list 
 of towns where the company plays and the dates on 
 which it appears in each town. Very often during the 
 best hour of the twenty-four, which I think is be- 
 tween six and seven o'clock in the evening, I take out 
 this card and find out just where "The Princess Pop- 
 injay" is that, night. I can imagine the chorus girls 
 walking arm in arm through the streets of the little 
 232
 
 THE KIDNAPPERS 
 
 town, unobserving but much observed as members of 
 "the troupe"; down in the hotel office Ben Adler is 
 talking to the clerk; and the actors are sitting with 
 their chairs tilted against the wall; and Baker and 
 Carroll and Altha Ryan and Alice Abercrombie have 
 just come in for dinner after a drive or a stroll 
 through the town. And later I know they will all put 
 on their fine plumage and go through the play, not 
 even knowing the name of the town so well prob- 
 ably as I do ; but they will have their jokes and their 
 gossip and their laughter and their hard-luck stories 
 behind the scenes and in the dressing-rooms, and 
 they will be happy in their own way and in their own 
 world. 
 
 233
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 fVlTH the exception of the adventure I am now 
 about to relate, my life has been conventional, dull, 
 and prosaic. This, I am bound to state, has been no 
 fault of my own, for my spirit is really a most ad- 
 venturous one, and I am sure that had my lot been 
 that of a gentleman of leisure, instead of a clerk in a 
 cotton house, I should have had such experiences as 
 we are led to believe were common a hundred years 
 ago. Instead of dashing about the world, accom- 
 panied by a few kindred spirits, in a rakish black 
 craft and exploring nooks and crannies of the globe 
 yet untouched by the foot of the white man, it has 
 been my fate to divide my life in New York between 
 our office down town, and comfortable though modest 
 rooms in a bachelor apartment-house on West 
 Twenty-sixth Street. My movements have also been 
 somewhat confined by a hard business sense which I 
 237
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 must have derived from my Puritan ancestors a 
 sense which has given me the reputation of a valued 
 employee, and has inspired a consistent practice of 
 not spending more than two-thirds of my income. As 
 a result, I have never been able to travel very far 
 afield for my romance, and have had to content my- 
 self with such adventure as I found in books and on 
 the stage. 
 
 I know my New York thoroughly, for I have gone 
 over every quarter of it time and again, always by 
 myself, and usually at night, but it is the land of the 
 money-grubber, not of romance no gloved hand 
 has ever waved to me from a passing brougham and 
 no fair face has yet appeared at a window of a de- 
 serted house. The few experiences I have had on my 
 nocturnal wanderings have always resulted in my 
 hasty flight in order to avoid a street brawl or some 
 equally vulgar proceeding. And so, with a feeling of 
 real regret, I have always been forced to return to my 
 novel at home in my little study or go back to my 
 front seat at the theatre and find my adventures 
 among the people of stage-land. 
 
 As in all other cotton houses, our work for the 
 238
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 year is most unevenly divided for six months we 
 toil ceaselessly and for the remainder of the time we 
 have really little or nothing to do. Many of our force 
 are employed only for the busy season. I, with sev- 
 eral others, am engaged for the whole twelve months, 
 but during the slack season our firm has gladly per- 
 mitted us to take long vacations on half-pay. 
 
 The work during the season just ended had been 
 particularly severe, and I had decided that I would, 
 for the first time during the ten years with which I 
 had been connected with the house, treat myself to 
 a long vacation. I had determined in a general way 
 that I should go abroad, but had arranged nothing 
 definitely farther than that I should spend the first 
 days of my holiday in absolute idleness in the city 
 where I had recently worked so hard. I had com- 
 pleted all the pending business at the office, and was 
 even in the act of shutting down my roller-top desk 
 with a feeling of genuine relief, when Mr. Arthur 
 Kellard walked into my office. 
 
 Mr. Kellard was an occasional customer of the 
 house, and frequently came in to consult me in re- 
 gard to his account. I knew little of him beyond the 
 239
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 facts that he had an office at 120 Broadway, was sup- 
 posed to have large interests in some Mexican mines, 
 and to all appearances, was a gentleman forty years 
 of age and of polite address. On the occasion of which 
 I speak he asked me about his account, and, having 
 obtained the required information, he entered into a 
 conversation on general topics with me. I told him of 
 my intended vacation and that I was even then about 
 to take my leave of the office. To this he suggested 
 that we should walk uptown together and begin my 
 holiday by taking a drink with him at his club. I 
 gladly assented, and he interested me greatly on our 
 way uptown by suggesting various tours I might take 
 as the best way of spending my vacation. 
 
 His club, while not of the very first social impor- 
 tance, like the Union or Knickerbocker, had a very 
 good address on Fifth Avenue, and I was soon most 
 comfortably ensconced in a large leather chair with 
 a glass of Scotch, a good cigar, and my new friend 
 across the little table telling me of the possibilities of 
 European travel. When we entered the room there 
 were but two other members present. They were sit- 
 ting at the next window to ours and looking with a 
 240
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 languid interest at the passing show on the Avenue. 
 Mr. Kellard evidently was not acquainted with them, 
 as he did not recognize them either when entering 
 the room or afterward. We sat together for perhaps 
 half an hour, and then my host begged me to excuse 
 him, as he had an engagement uptown, but suggested 
 that I should remain where I was or make myself at 
 home wherever I chose in the club. I readily acceded 
 to this suggestion, as I was not a member of any club, 
 and thoroughly enjoyed the novelty of the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 I had been sitting at the window alone for some 
 minutes, thinking only of the passers-by and the long 
 lines of fine carriages with their beautifully dressed 
 owners, and rather hoping that some of my acquaint- 
 ances might see me in the club window, when my 
 attention was arrested by a remark made by one of 
 the two men at the neighboring window. A young and 
 very pretty girl had just driven by in a runabout. I 
 had myself noticed her, not only on account of her 
 beauty, but because of the extreme smartness of the 
 vehicle and the livery of the little tiger sitting beside 
 her. 
 
 241
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Nice girl," said one of the men; "but very eccen- 
 tric, very." 
 
 From where I was sitting I could easily hear their 
 conversation and, quite unobserved, get a good look 
 at them. The man who spoke was the elder of the 
 two. He was perhaps forty years of age, extremely 
 well groomed, and his most distinctive feature was 
 a blonde moustache turned up at the ends very much 
 in the style affected by the Emperor William. His 
 friend, who looked to be about thirty years of age, 
 had a clean-shaven face, and, like the other man, had 
 the appearance and manner of a true cosmopolite. 
 
 "I have never met her," answered the younger 
 man, "but she always looks most attractive and 
 quite unlike other actresses. For instance, she doesn't 
 crown herself with white plumes and loll back in a 
 victoria. Did you notice that dress she had on when 
 she passed just now ? Her whole appearance was that 
 of a very smart girl in society, and her trap was just 
 as well turned out as herself. I have often thought I 
 should like to meet her." 
 
 "I wish we could all have supper together some 
 night after the performance," said the man with the 
 242
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 blonde moustache, "but she is most difficult. That is 
 one of her eccentricities. Ada Caldara never makes 
 engagements. She is quite willing to have you meet 
 her at the stage door, but she always reserves the 
 privilege of refusing your invitation at the last mo- 
 ment and going away with some other friend or back 
 home for a quiet supper with her mother. I have seen 
 half a dozen men waiting for her, and she has left 
 them all standing on the sidewalk looking like a lot 
 of fools, and then driven off in a hansom with her 
 maid. It's wonderful how she holds her friends." 
 
 "I saw her last spring when she was playing in 
 London at the Shaftesbury," said the younger man. 
 "She was at a supper young Neimeyer gave her at 
 The Princess. She struck me then as being excep- 
 tionally good-looking." 
 
 "Do you know Neimeyer?" answered the older 
 man. "It was he who gave her the flawless emerald." 
 
 "A flawless emerald? I didn't know there was 
 such a thing," said the young man. 
 
 "They are very rare," continued the man with the 
 blonde moustache; "many jewellers who have been 
 in the business all their lives have never seen one, 
 243
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 and, as a matter of fact, it is the quickest test to tell a 
 real stone from one of the very good imitations they 
 make nowadays the imitations are always flawless. 
 Didn't you ever hear of the trouble with the Nei- 
 meyers about the stone ? It's a very good story, but 
 was hushed up over there by young Neimeyer's 
 friends." 
 
 In answer the younger man shook his head. His 
 friend turned to look at me, but I anticipated him 
 and continued to look out of the window as if I were 
 quite unconscious of their presence. The older man 
 took out his cigarette-case, lighted a cigarette, and 
 continued: 
 
 "About the time young Neimeyer was so devoted 
 to this girl a very distinguished personage arrived in 
 London with one of the most remarkable collections 
 of jewels in the world." 
 
 "An Indian prince?" asked the younger man. 
 
 "No, better than that," said his friend. "He was a 
 royal personage; a ruler of a small kingdom all of his 
 own. But like a good many modern rulers he was 
 sadly impoverished, and he came to sell some of his 
 family jewels so that he might straighten out his af- 
 244
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 fairs at home. But it seemed he had a most absurd 
 idea of their value, and demanded such exorbitant 
 prices that his mission failed utterly. To make things 
 worse, he lost a great deal of money gambling at one 
 of the fashionable clubs in London, and tried to make 
 it up at the races, and met with the usual result. In a 
 very short time he found himself deeply in debt to his 
 sponsors at the club and the book-makers as well. In 
 his predicament he turned to old man Neimeyer, who 
 you probably know carries on his business of a dealer 
 in antiquities only as a blind, for since Sam Lewis 
 died he is really the greatest usurer in England. He 
 will loan money on anything from a ducal estate to 
 a trained elephant that is, as long as he gets his 
 fifty per cent, commission. The most valuable single 
 gem the potentate had in his collection was a flawless 
 emerald, probably the best of its kind in the world, 
 and it was this he took to Neimeyer. To make a long 
 story short, he loaned the gem to the money-lender 
 as security, got enough ready cash to pay his debts 
 and returned to his own country to arrange with his 
 Minister of Finance to pile on taxes sufficient to 
 eventually get his flawless emerald out of pawn. He 
 245
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 had until the end of a year, which was the time for 
 which it had been loaned to Neimeyer. 
 
 "This is where Miss Caldara got into the game. 
 Young Jacob Neimeyer had been showing the girl 
 all kinds of attentions, and I imagine the affair had 
 put him in a rather bad way financially. Whether it 
 was his lack of funds or just sheer madness over his 
 devotion to her, he went to his father's safe one night, 
 took out the flawless emerald, and carried it with the 
 tale of its great value to the lady he loved so well and 
 unwisely. A few days later the old man wanted to 
 show the gem to a friend, and, of course, discovered 
 the loss. As there were only two or three people who 
 knew about the jewel and who had the combination 
 of the safe, the theft was very soon fixed on the son, 
 and the real trouble began. The boy for that's what 
 he really is protested that he had only loaned the 
 jewel to Miss Caldara, but the lady thought differ- 
 ently. She claimed that it was a gift. Neimeyer called 
 in his lawyers, and even Scotland Yard was appealed 
 to, and many and strong were the arguments brought 
 to bear on the young actress. They threatened to 
 arrest her as the receiver of stolen goods, but she very 
 246
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 naturally contended that her arrest could only follow 
 that of the thief, and Neimeyer, of course, was anx- 
 ious to keep his son out of jail as well as to avoid the 
 scandal which would follow the expose of his trans- 
 action with the potentate. There were many meetings 
 and stormy interviews between all the parties con- 
 cerned, but the upshot of it all was that Miss Caldara 
 agreed to return the jewel within the year from the 
 day it was pawned, so that it should be in Neimeyer 's 
 safe by the time the royal personage returned to 
 claim his own. In the meantime, she was to have the 
 privilege of wearing it when and how she liked, but, 
 as a matter of fact, few even of her intimate friends 
 have any idea of its value, as the Neimeyers natu- 
 rally never speak of the incident, and she is not par- 
 ticularly anxious to tell a story which is but little to 
 her credit." 
 
 "Does she often wear it ?" interrupted the younger 
 man. 
 
 "Very seldom," answered his friend. "In fact, I 
 
 have never seen her use it on the stage. I always 
 
 wanted to see it 'from the front,' however, and she 
 
 promised me at supper last evening that she would 
 
 247
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 positively wear it to-night. Why don't you come to 
 the theatre with me ? We can see how the jewel looks 
 over the footlights, and if she will take supper after- 
 ward we can examine it at close range. It is really 
 worth while quite a historic gem." 
 
 "I'm sorry," replied the younger man, "but I'm 
 going to a dinner dance and you know what that 
 means. I'll probably not get away before one or pos- 
 sibly two o'clock. It's too bad, for I should really like 
 to see the flawless emerald." 
 
 "Well, some other time, then," said the older man, 
 and the two friends, as if by mutual consent, finished 
 their drinks and sauntered out of the room. 
 
 I must admit that I had listened to the story of the 
 flawless emerald with great interest. I knew nothing 
 of gems and very little of the heroine of the tale, but 
 I had seen her many times on the stage at the Ca- 
 sino, and had always admired her very greatly for her 
 extreme beauty and an apparently indolent grace 
 which was really most attractive. I was glad to learn 
 something of her, and to listen to a story concerning 
 the intimate doings of such people as the poor poten- 
 tate and the famous money-lender people who were 
 248
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 part of a life of which I had seen nothing and knew 
 but little. My curiosity to see the wonderful emerald 
 was indeed very great, and nothing would have kept 
 me away from the theatre that night. As it was, I had 
 no engagement, and immediately set out for the Wal- 
 dorf, where I bought a front seat for that night's 
 performance. 
 
 I suppose I should have blamed Miss Caldara for 
 her part in the proceedings, but when she made her 
 appearance I could not find it in my heart to do so. 
 She was quite the loveliest person to look at on the 
 stage and seemed to me worthy to wear any gem 
 however rare and valuable. Indeed, when she smiled 
 pleasantly at a gentleman sitting alone in a stage box, 
 and whom I at once recognized as the one who had 
 told the story of the emerald that afternoon at the 
 club, I really envied him greatly. I had several times 
 read of the wonderful collection of jewels Miss Cal- 
 dara was supposed to possess, and had on several 
 previous visits to the same play noticed some re- 
 markable diamonds she wore, but on this particular 
 night, during the first two acts, she used no jewels of 
 any description, and I almost gave up hope of seeing 
 249
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the famous flawless emerald. It was at the very last 
 of the third act, when Miss Caldara appeared in a 
 white evening dress, that I caught my first glimpse of 
 the jewel which had already caused so much trouble. 
 She wore it at the edge of her corsage, and its size 
 alone, even had it not been a stone of great bril- 
 liancy, would have at once attracted the attention of 
 the audience. The emerald appeared to be about an 
 inch square and needed no other jewels to set off its 
 great beauty indeed, even the mounting was invisi- 
 ble from my seat in the orchestra. It seemed as if 
 every one about me began discussing the stone at 
 once. The lady sitting next to me contended that it 
 was altogether too large to be genuine, but her 
 escort laughed and said something about Miss Cal- 
 dara's jewels being finer than any ever worn in a box 
 at the Metropolitan Opera House. 
 
 I wished that I might tell them all I knew, and it 
 seemed strange that in all that audience only the man 
 sitting alone in the box and I understood how valu- 
 able the stone really was. But, of course, I said 
 nothing, and in a few moments the final curtain fell 
 and Miss Caldara and her emerald were shut off 
 250
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 from our view. It so happened that I had never 
 counted an actor or an actress among my friends, 
 and so I had never had any occasion to visit the stage 
 door of a theatre, but nothing could have tempted 
 me away from the stage door of the Casino on this 
 particular night. I wanted to see Miss Caldara again, 
 and, above all, I wanted to see what became of the 
 admirers who had come to meet her. The whole idea 
 struck me as most unique and amusing. I followed 
 the audience out of the theatre, and slowly walked 
 around the corner and up Thirty-ninth Street toward 
 Sixth Avenue. There was a long line of hansoms, 
 broughams, and automobiles stretching for almost an 
 entire block, and quite a number of people had al- 
 ready collected about the stage entrance. It was 
 rather dark, but I could easily see that the crowd 
 was made up of many classes of society. There were 
 stage-hands in their working clothes, and very smart- 
 looking young men in evening dress, and many others 
 of all conditions waiting for friends, or perhaps, like 
 myself, attracted there purely from a spirit of curi- 
 osity. I watched with much interest the almost con- 
 tinuous line of men and women who were in some 
 251
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 way connected with the theatre as they came through 
 the little door leading to the mysterious realms of 
 stage-land. Many of the girls hurried away singly or 
 in little groups, while others joined their friends and 
 dashed away in the hansoms or automobiles, no 
 doubt to gay suppers that awaited them. The scene 
 was full of human interest to me, and although I was 
 considerably jostled and knocked about by the crowd 
 around the door, the half-hour which passed before 
 Miss Caldara finally appeared slipped by most 
 pleasantly. 
 
 It occurred to me, however, as a curious fact, that 
 nowhere in the crowd could I see the man who had 
 told the story of the emerald, and who had occupied 
 the box, while, on the other hand, I was sure that I 
 had recognized his friend who had that afternoon 
 begged off from going to the theatre on account of 
 another engagement. However, as the incident could 
 be accounted for in many ways, and as it was none of 
 my affair anyhow, I gave it but a passing thought. 
 
 The actress whom I had waited to see at last made 
 her appearance. There was no question as to her 
 identity, and she looked quite as beautiful to me as 
 252
 
 The actress at last made her appearance.
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 she had on the stage. About her shoulders she wore 
 a long opera cloak which only partially concealed 
 a dress such as any lady might wear to an evening 
 party. Accompanied by her maid and looking neither 
 to the right nor to the left, she brushed her way 
 through the crowd and started toward Sixth Avenue, 
 in which direction her carriage was evidently await- 
 ing her. She had perhaps gone some twenty feet be- 
 yond the crowd about the door when she uttered 
 a faint cry and turned suddenly to her maid. After 
 a few hasty words the two women started back 
 toward the theatre. Miss Caldara reentered the stage 
 door, and the maid ran to the corner and started an 
 earnest conversation with a policeman. The actress 
 returned almost immediately with the stage-door 
 man, and began looking about on the ground as if for 
 some lost article. They were joined by the police 
 officer and the maid, and all four commenced to look 
 over the sidewalk. The officer at first glanced care- 
 fully over the crowd. Some of the men returned his 
 stare impudently, while others turned their heads 
 and slowly walked away. In a few moments every 
 one who remained knew that a valuable jewel had 
 253
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 been lost by Miss Caldara on her way from the stage 
 door to her carriage, and the whole crowd of men 
 joined in the search of the sidewalk, at the same time 
 eying each other with evident suspicion. 
 
 I, too, joined in the search, but I knew that it was 
 quite futile; for the flawless emerald was in my 
 overcoat pocket. 
 
 In the great excitement of the moment I could not 
 positively state just when it got there, but it was 
 about the time that Miss Caldara uttered the faint 
 scream and turned back to the theatre. I was com- 
 pletely surrounded at the moment, but I distinctly 
 felt something suddenly forced into my outside 
 pocket. I turned my head, but the men standing 
 back of me were all looking at the beautiful actress, 
 and it was impossible to distinguish which of several 
 men was in the best position to have transferred his 
 plunder to me. The situation was at once perfectly 
 apparent: the thief had snatched the case from Miss 
 Caldara and had passed it on to me instead of his 
 confederate. I was sure that the latter had sneaked 
 away with some of the other men, believing that his 
 pal had decided to hold on to the jewel, while the 
 254
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 thief, under the impression that he had successfully 
 carried out the transfer, was even then assisting in 
 the search. An enormous crowd gathered almost 
 immediately, and the sidewalk became black with 
 people. 
 
 "I should like to search every one of youse," 
 growled the police officer; but the crowd only laughed 
 and went on lighting matches and using them as 
 torches as they continued to scan the pavement. 
 
 For one brief moment I thought of giving up the 
 emerald, but then I considered that I was without 
 a single friend in the crowd, and whatever Miss 
 Caldara might think, my action would certainly be 
 regarded as most suspicious by the mob, which I 
 knew would like nothing better than to see me hur- 
 ried off to the nearest police station. There would be 
 plenty of time later to make the necessary restitution, 
 and I had sufficient wit to know that hasty action 
 in such crises is always conducive to error. The per- 
 spiration came out on my forehead in large drops, 
 and actually ran down my face, but I held my head 
 low and went on with the search, gradually, how- 
 ever, working myself away from the point where the 
 255
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 crowd was the greatest. The actress, I must admit, 
 met the difficulty as a true lady should, and did little 
 more than direct the search with decision and with- 
 out any vulgar display of emotion. I cannot say as 
 much for the maid, who dived about under every- 
 body's legs looking for the jewel-case, in the mean- 
 while weeping and bewailing the great loss of her 
 mistress. 
 
 What eventually occurred and how the crowd was 
 finally dispersed, I do not know; for as soon as I had 
 worked myself to the outer edge of the mob, I saun- 
 tered slowly down Thirty-ninth Street and turned 
 into the crowded sidewalks of Broadway. All my life 
 I had been looking for adventure, and when at last 
 it came I cannot say that I found very much pleasure 
 in it indeed, my only feeling was worse than that of 
 the culprit who is lucky enough to have escaped with 
 his plunder. I walked along the street for several 
 blocks in a semi-dazed condition, my hand in my 
 pocket closely grasping the jewel-case. But the cool 
 night air finally brought me to my senses, and I de- 
 cided that I must go home and, in the quiet of my 
 own apartment, plan for future action. 
 256
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 The apartment which I occupied was on the second 
 floor and ran the entire length of the building, which 
 was formerly a private residence, but had been re- 
 cently changed to a combination business and apart- 
 ment-house. The basement and lower floor were used 
 as shops, and there was but one apartment above my 
 own. As the latter was not rented at the time, and as 
 there was no elevator and the caretaker only came 
 in during the day, I was quite alone in the building 
 after the shops had been closed for the night. I did 
 not care particularly for the arrangement, but I had 
 the satisfaction of knowing that it was not the kind 
 of house which a burglar would care to take the risk 
 of entering, as the .shops dealt in only the cheapest 
 kind of goods and my own apartment was simplicity 
 itself. On the present occasion, however, I must con- 
 fess to a feeling of very great pleasure as I opened the 
 door into my little sitting-room. Here, at least, I was 
 safe with my treasure and free to consider how best 
 to return it to its owner. I took off my hat and over- 
 coat and put the precious case, which I knew must 
 contain the emerald, on my writing desk. I lighted 
 my pipe, and, drawing up a chair, opened the jewel- 
 257
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 case. The great green stone lay on a piece of white 
 velvet from its every facet it shone and sparkled 
 splendidly even in the dull yellow light of my room. 
 I took it out of the case and held it up before the gas- 
 jet it was as clear as crystal, not the trace of a flaw 
 anywhere. And then I heard the door of the bed- 
 room which was back of me creak on its hinges, and 
 I knew that I was not alone. 
 
 My first instinct was to cry aloud for help, but the 
 childish fear which possessed my senses passed as 
 quickly as it had overtaken me, and I laid the jewel 
 on the desk in front of me. There was no possible 
 escape: the windows were closed and heavily cur- 
 tained, and the spring lock of the door had snapped 
 behind me when I entered. My mind seemed to be 
 perfectly clear, but as I listened to the quiet footfalls 
 of some one approaching toward the back of my 
 chair, I was quite conscious that my heart was not 
 beating. I had no weapon in my desk, and my eyes 
 cast about for something with which I might defend 
 myself, but I saw nothing. There are some sensations 
 which without any previous experience we seem to 
 feel instinctively: for the first time in my life I was 
 258
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 conscious of having a pistol held very close to my 
 head. I turned slowly, and my eyes followed the bar- 
 rel of a revolver up to a white shirt-cuff, the sleeve of 
 a tweed suit, and then to a face partially concealed 
 by a black mask. Holding the revolver very close to 
 my forehead, the man reached out with his free hand, 
 took the emerald, and dropped it into his coat pocket. 
 
 "Now, young man," he said, with the revolver 
 still held in very close proximity to my head, "take a 
 piece of that note-paper and write what I tell you." 
 
 I was completely in his power, and so I took out 
 the paper and wrote as the thief dictated. This is 
 what I was forced to write: "I hereby swear that 
 this night I have been in full possession of the flaw- 
 less emerald which belongs to Miss Ada Caldara." 
 
 "Now write the date," the burglar said, "and sign 
 the note with your full name." 
 
 I did as I was told, and the man picked up the 
 paper and stuck it in the pocket where he had already 
 placed the emerald. Then he backed toward the door. 
 
 "Young man," he said, when he had found the 
 door knob, "my advice to you is not to move. If you 
 do I may get it pretty bad if I'm caught, but you'll 
 259
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 get the worst of it whatever happens." He spoke with 
 great authority, and even before he had opened the 
 door and backed slowly out I was convinced that 
 there was much truth in his argument. If I ran to the 
 window and called the police, and if they came in 
 time to catch the culprit, which was most doubtful 
 at that time of night and in that neighborhood, I 
 could only accuse the man of stealing a gem which 
 after all had come into my own possession under the 
 most suspicious circumstances. Thus I argued with 
 myself until I heard my front door close with a bang. 
 Then I jumped up, threw open the window and 
 looked out; but the street was apparently deserted 
 and I heard no footsteps to mar the stillness of the 
 night. I returned to my desk, relighted my pipe, and 
 pondered long over my loss or rather that of Miss 
 Caldara and just how great was my responsibility 
 in the matter. I know that I cursed the day I had 
 ever heard of the flawless emerald. Here I was, about 
 to set out on my first long vacation abroad, suddenly 
 confronted with the unpleasant facts that I had been 
 the receiver of stolen goods, and that I had then been 
 deprived of the same goods in a most ignominious 
 260
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 manner, by an extraordinary burglar, who, not con- 
 tent with his swag, must force me to give him a sworn 
 statement that it had once been in my possession. 
 This was surely no ordinary "second-story" worker, 
 for in no way did he conform to the general idea of 
 the type. His clothes were well cut, his linen was of 
 the finest, and his voice was apparently that of a man 
 of culture. Of course, I know that many men of re- 
 finement have become burglars, and the value of the 
 prize in this case was worthy of the best of rogues, 
 but I could not imagine what he wanted with that 
 carefully worded statement. Admitting that I had 
 written myself down a thief, of what possible use 
 could my caller in the black mask make of it ? My 
 only satisfaction was in the thought that I was really 
 not guilty, and that while I had been robbed with 
 ridiculous ease, no one, however brave, could have 
 acted differently. My position was a most unfortu- 
 nate one, and after thinking for a long time over the 
 matter I reached the conclusion that if the law did 
 not prevent, I would still take my vacation abroad 
 and the incidents of that evening should hasten 
 rather than retard my departure. In fact, I decided 
 261
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 that the next steamer to leave the port of New York 
 was the best boat for me. Fortunately I had that 
 morning's Herald in my room, and I eagerly scanned 
 the shipping news to find if there were a ship sailing 
 the next morning. There was only one, and it was 
 bound for Naples and Genoa. 
 
 I had often wanted to visit Italy, the home of ro- 
 mance and adventure, and here was my opportunity. 
 By this time, however, I had convinced myself that 
 I had no choice in the matter, and so I determined 
 to positively sail the next morning. I went into my 
 bedroom to begin my preparations for departure, 
 and for the first time observed how the burglar had 
 entered my apartment. He had not even taken the 
 trouble to close the window leading to the fire-escape, 
 up which he had evidently climbed from the court 
 below. Having reached the platform of the fire-escape, 
 nothing could be easier than to enter the bedroom, 
 as the window was usually open, and even when 
 closed had no safety catch. The apartments in my 
 neighborhood were never built for burglars. Or, 
 perhaps, I should say were built expressly for them. 
 
 As my boat did not sail until noon the next day, 
 262
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 I had plenty of time to do my packing, buy my ticket, 
 take out a modest letter of credit, and at such odd 
 moments as I could find run through the morning 
 papers for any news concerning the loss of Miss 
 Caldara's emerald. 
 
 All of them mentioned the fact that the actress 
 had been robbed of a valuable jewel on her way 
 from the stage door to her brougham; some treated 
 the matter most seriously and devoted much space 
 to the details, while others referred to the incident 
 but briefly and with a tinge of suspicion. But I at least 
 knew that this was not the imaginings of a press 
 agent but a bona-fide robbery two robberies in fact. 
 
 My emotions, as I leaned over the rail and watched 
 the steamship back out of the slip, were indeed of a 
 curious mixture. Had it not been for the unfortunate 
 incident of the emerald, my feelings would have been 
 simply those of elation at the prospect of visiting 
 Italy, which I always had longed to see, but as it 
 was I felt that I was leaving my own dear country 
 under a cloud a cloud the dimensions and blackness 
 of which might greatly increase before I even reached 
 Naples. My love for romance and adventure seemed 
 263
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 to have been entirely eradicated from my system by 
 the events of the night previous. These and many 
 other unpleasant thoughts whirled through my brain 
 as I watched the tiny waves lapping at the side of the 
 great black boat, and I finally turned away from 
 my place at the rail with a heavy heart. I had 
 walked but a few steps along the deck when I came 
 face to face with the younger of the two men I had 
 seen the day before at the club. 
 
 I must say that he was apparently as much sur- 
 prised at the meeting as myself, and his face showed 
 his feelings plainly. At that instant I knew in my 
 heart that he had been associated in some way with 
 the robbery of the flawless emerald. I was sure of it. 
 He knew its great value, he had been at the stage 
 door when the gem was stolen, and he was, like my- 
 self, a passenger on board the first steamer to leave 
 New York after the robbery. I walked up the deck, 
 and then turning, followed him at a considerable 
 distance. Unsuspected, I at last saw him go into a 
 deck state-room. Then I sat down on somebody's 
 steamer chair and waited. When the bugle blew for 
 lunch I took my stand near the gangway, and, having 
 264
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 seen him pass safely into the dining-saloon, I started 
 at once for his state-room. The door was open, and 
 the whole place was strewn with the morning and 
 early editions of the evening papers. I entered and 
 found, as I suspected, that every paper was open at 
 the page whereon appeared the story of Miss Cal- 
 dara's loss. I was convinced then that on board of the 
 very same boat as myself was the flawless emerald, 
 and, in all probability, the thief himself. Of the latter 
 fact I was not at all sure there was a certain general 
 similarity between the man on the boat and the one 
 who had robbed me of the gem, but I could not quite 
 establish any particular point of resemblance. 
 
 During the voyage I saw very little of Norman 
 Vanvoorst, for that was the name of the man whom I 
 believed to have possession of the emerald. He did 
 not seem to care to associate with his fellow-passen- 
 gers, and either remained in his cabin or sat alone 
 on the deck, reading such books of travel as the ship's 
 library afforded. For hours and hours I paced the 
 deck, trying to figure out in my own mind the true 
 mystery of the robbery, and if there were no possible 
 way by which I could regain the stone from my fel- 
 265
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 low-passenger. It was useless to visit his cabin, for if 
 he were the present possessor of the emerald it was 
 quite certain that he either carried it on his person 
 or had given it to the purser for safe-keeping. One 
 thing which led me to the former belief was a pecu- 
 liarity he had of occasionally feeling for something 
 in his clothes just over his heart, or about where the 
 upper pocket of his waistcoat would be. Often as I 
 watched him sitting in his steamer chair or walking 
 along the deck I saw his hand steal to the same spot 
 over his heart, and in time I became convinced that 
 it was here that he carried the emerald. The easiest 
 solution of the robbery, so it seemed to me, was that 
 Vanvoorst had heard of the almost priceless jewel at 
 a time when he was in great need of money, that he 
 had gone to the stage door on that eventful night, 
 and had watched his confederate, who was probably 
 a practised pick-pocket, steal the jewel-box from 
 Miss Caldara and by mistake pass it to me instead 
 of to himself. The error once made, there was noth- 
 ing to do but follow me to my home and rob me in 
 the masterly fashion which one of them most certainly 
 accomplished. Of one thing I am convinced, and that
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 was that long before we reached Gibraltar I had lost 
 all sense of fear for my own part in the robbery and 
 thought only of revenge and the possibility of getting 
 the emerald from Vanvoorst, and in due time return- 
 ing it to its rightful owner. But I could devise no 
 means to accomplish these ends to have tried to 
 take the jewel back by main force would have been 
 madness, and I should only have been put in irons for 
 my trouble. But on one point I was quite determined. 
 Wherever Vanvoorst left the boat I should leave too, 
 and follow him as long as my resources lasted. 
 
 We remained fellow-passengers until we reached 
 Genoa, when it became necessary for both of us to 
 land, as this was the last stop the boat made. When 
 he sent his luggage to the railroad station, I sent my 
 porter after his, and when he had his trunks regis- 
 tered for Monte Carlo, I sent mine after them. I shall 
 always remember that day, as the train jolted its way 
 along the coast through a perfect garden of tropical 
 plants. The deep blue of the sky, the sea a rainbow 
 of color, and the gray rocks covered with myriads of 
 gorgeous flowers gave me a new-born love of nature, 
 and for the time I forgot that there ever had been 
 267
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 such a person as Miss Caldara, or such a gem as 
 the flawless emerald, or that Mr. Norman Van- 
 voorst occupied a compartment in the same car as 
 my own. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at 
 Monte Carlo, and I waited on the station platform 
 until I saw Vanvoorst get into the omnibus from the 
 Hotel de Paris. I followed in a carriage with my lug- 
 gage, and was soon most comfortably settled in a 
 large bright room overlooking the sea. There was 
 little probability of my man leaving the place that 
 evening, and so I determined to devote the night to 
 my own amusement. After a good dinner I went 
 over to the Casino, a resort which I had long wished 
 to see, and although I understood but little of the 
 games of roulette or trente-et-quarante, I found the 
 scene a most diverting one. I had been wandering 
 about from table to table for perhaps half an hour, 
 when there was a sudden and to me inexplicable 
 stampede toward one of the rooms at the farther end 
 of the building, where the trente-et-quarante tables 
 were situated. I hurried along with the crowd, and as 
 I passed two men, who were evidently English, I 
 268
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 heard one of them say to the other: "Hurry up old 
 Neimeyer is trying to break the bank." 
 
 This indeed was good luck for me. I had not only 
 always wanted to see the bank at Monte Carlo 
 broken, but I most certainly wanted to see the man 
 who was going to do it, especially if he were the Nei- 
 meyer who had once possessed the flawless emerald. 
 By the time I reached the trente-et-quarante room, 
 the place was crowded to the point of suffocation. 
 It was impossible to make my way through the dense 
 mob surging about the table, so I climbed on one of 
 the velvet lounges and had a fine view of the whole 
 proceeding. Mr. Neimeyer looked about sixty years 
 of age, was short and stout, and quite bald. Of all the 
 immense crowd in the big room he seemed to be the 
 only one who had not temporarily gone mad. He sat 
 at the side of the table, half-way between the crou- 
 piers, and as each time he put down the maximum bet 
 of twelve thousand francs and waited for the cards 
 to be dealt, he smiled and chatted pleasantly with 
 the croupiers. When he won, and it seemed as if he 
 could not lose, his little eyes twinkled and he folded 
 up his winnings and stuck the notes deep in his inside 
 269
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 pocket. During the few plays I saw him make the 
 excitement in the room was intense, for, as I after- 
 ward learned, it is considered a most difficult feat to 
 break the bank at trente-et-quarante. The finish 
 came very quickly and, at least to me, most unex- 
 pectedly. Neimeyer had as usual bet the maximum 
 and as usual won. The chief croupier opened the lid 
 of his brass-bound money-chest, looked into it and 
 then across the table at Neimeyer, smiled pleasantly 
 and nodded his head. Then with one of the croupier's 
 rakes, he rapped on the bell lying in the centre of the 
 table, which was the sign for one of the attendants 
 to bring another chest of money. At the sound of the 
 bell the crowd broke into a loud cheer, and in the 
 general confusion that followed I asked an English- 
 man standing near who it was that had broken the 
 bank, and he told me it was Neimeyer, the famous 
 antiquity dealer from London. I was glad, for I felt 
 that before I left Monte Carlo I probably should need 
 his services and that he possibly might need mine. 
 
 When the rooms had been closed for the night I fol- 
 lowed the crowd out of the Casino, and with many 
 others crossed the road to the cafe opposite. In that 
 270
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 scene of gayety I must admit that I felt most lonely 
 and miserable. I would have given much for the sight 
 of the face of a friend, or even an acquaintance, with 
 whom I could have had a good-night drink. I sat 
 alone at a table near the wall and listened to the 
 Hungarian band and watched the merry-makers 
 about me. Not twenty feet from me Vanvoorst sat at 
 a table with two very smart-looking women and a 
 man, who were evidently old friends. I noticed that 
 they continually glanced up at the Casino clock, and 
 after perhaps half an hour the whole party arose and 
 started in the direction of the railway station. It was 
 evident that Vanvoorst's friends were stopping at 
 Nice or Cannes and had come down to Monte Carlo 
 to dine and spend the evening with him. Now he was 
 going to accompany them to the station and would 
 probably return alone. I paid my check and then fol- 
 lowed them at a safe distance through the gardens. 
 I saw them go down the hill, but I remained on a 
 rocky terrace overlooking the sea. I heard the Nice 
 train arrive and depart, and then I retraced my steps 
 to a turn in the path where the garden seemed to be 
 the most isolated and the foliage the thickest. I stood 
 271
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 behind some bushes, where the leaves completely 
 hid me from view, and waited for the return of my 
 man. I saw him slowly walking up the path he was 
 smoking and completely unconscious that he was 
 being watched. As he reached a point opposite the 
 bushes behind which I had been concealed, I stepped 
 out in the middle of the path and confronted him. 
 For a moment there was silence, while I looked him 
 full in the eyes, and he in return regarded me with a 
 look of the most languid interest. 
 
 "Well? "he said at last. 
 
 "You have," I answered, "in your possession an 
 emerald, the property of Miss Ada Caldara, which 
 you stole or had stolen from me. You are going to give 
 it to me, and you are going to give it to me now." 
 
 "That," said Vanvoorst, "is, I regret to say, not 
 the case. I have not got Miss Caldara's emerald about 
 me, and if you crossed the ocean in the hope of re- 
 gaining it, you have made a serious mistake, for the 
 stone is still in New York. Will you now kindly let me 
 pass or are you going to try to go through my clothes ? 
 I should not advise you to try the latter plan, as you 
 would probably be interrupted by a guard, and you 
 272
 
 possibly know that the laws over here for foreign 
 criminals are most complicated." 
 
 "It is possible," I answered, "that you have not 
 the emerald with you at this moment, but when you 
 say it is not in Monte Carlo you lie. There is another 
 here who has a greater interest in that particular 
 jewel than myself, and he is very powerful and very 
 rich, and with his aid I will yet defeat you. On the 
 steamer you carried the emerald in your upper waist- 
 coat pocket over your heart. I know that it is not 
 there now, but it is not far away, and, be sure, I will 
 not lose sight of you until I have recovered it." 
 
 I stepped aside, and Vanvoorst sauntered on his 
 way to the hotel. Once again I had been made a fool 
 of and accomplished nothing, except that the man 
 had practically admitted his knowledge of the rob- 
 bery of the emerald. I returned to my room tired and 
 discouraged, and as I lay in bed I decided that if no 
 device occurred to me on the morrow whereby I 
 could recover the emerald, I should go to Neimeyer, 
 tell him the whole story, and ask for his aid, which 
 under the circumstances, I did not see how he could 
 well refuse. 
 
 273
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 The next day I spent in the gambling rooms, for 
 the most part watching Vanvoorst lose at roulette. 
 He played a reckless game, and, as the luck seemed 
 to be all against him, his losses must have been very 
 heavy. After he had lost all the French money he had 
 with him, he took out of his pocket-book some Ameri- 
 can bank-notes and sent an attendant to have them 
 changed into French money. He continued to play 
 with this for some time, but his bad luck would not 
 leave him, and he finally lost his last gold piece. With 
 a gesture of disgust, he left the table and hurried from 
 the room. I had been sitting across the table, and, in 
 order to hold my position, had been making some 
 modest wagers on the game, of which by this time I 
 had picked up a fairly good understanding. As I had 
 been playing in direct opposition to Vanvoorst, I was 
 a good winner, and was loath to quit playing, al- 
 though I had a presentiment that should have kept 
 me from letting him for a moment out of my sight. I 
 continued to play for perhaps half an hour, when my 
 luck changed, and after losing a part of my winnings 
 I got up from the table and went out of the Casino 
 for a breath of fresh air. Just as I reached the steps 
 274
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 I saw Neimeyer some distance off, and walking in the 
 direction of the Galerie Charles III. With no definite 
 purpose, I followed him and saw him enter the 
 Galerie and stroll slowly along, stopping frequently 
 to look into the windows of the little shops. I think it 
 is the third one from the entrance that is occupied by 
 a jeweller, and as I slowly followed Neimeyer I no- 
 ticed that the window was full of the most beautiful 
 gems and the finest specimens of the goldsmith's art. 
 As I afterward learned, it is a shop most liberally 
 patronized by those who have lost their money at the 
 gaming-tables, and must necessarily sell their jewels 
 or valuables to recoup their depleted fortunes. There 
 were certainly some very remarkable jewels in the 
 window on this occasion, and the prices seemed to be 
 particularly moderate. I glanced over the different 
 articles, and was about to turn away and continue 
 my walk up the Galerie, when my eye fell on a jewel 
 which I at once knew I had seen before. It was the 
 flawless emerald. Like many of the other jewels, it 
 was pinned to a white card on which were written 
 the words "Occasion 12,000 fr." To be sure that 
 there was no mistake, I went into the shop and asked 
 275
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 to examine the jewel more closely. I held it up to the 
 light, and it was without a flaw. In addition to this 
 there could be no mistaking the color, the shape, and 
 the cutting. It was evident that Vanvoorst had sold 
 the emerald. At last I had .found the jewel I sought, 
 but the price placed it as far beyond my reach as it 
 had ever been. Much as I wanted the stone back, I 
 could not afford twelve thousand francs. I left the 
 shop and walked down to the end of the Galerie, 
 where I found Mr. Neimeyer sitting on the balustrade 
 looking out on that wonderful picture of rocks and 
 sea. My mind was already made up, and I approached 
 the money-lender and introduced myself. He received 
 my advances pleasantly and made a few conventional 
 remarks about the view which lay before us. 
 
 "I know, Mr. Neimeyer," I said, "that you are a 
 connoisseur and a recognized authority on the beau- 
 tiful things of this world, and there is something in 
 the window of a little shop on the Galerie of which I 
 wish to ask your opinion. Could you so far oblige 
 me?" 
 
 Mr. Neimeyer smiled his assent, and together we 
 walked to the jeweller's window. 
 276
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 "Do you see that emerald ?" I asked, and watched 
 closely the expression of his face. "It is flawless," I 
 continued, "and you know that flawless emeralds of 
 that size are exceedingly rare. The price, twelve 
 thousand francs, seems very small?" 
 
 The old man showed but a polite interest in the 
 emerald, and his manner, I must confess, annoyed 
 me greatly. 
 
 "The fact," he said, "that the price is small has 
 really little bearing on its value. Strictly speaking, 
 this is not a pawn-shop, but the owner buys jewels 
 outright from people who need the money very badly 
 and sells them again at what he considers a legitimate 
 profit. I should say it is no doubt an excellent place 
 to find bargains, and this emerald very possibly may 
 be one. Personally, I know nothing of jewels. I am 
 at least, so they say an authority on antiquities, but 
 I have never wasted my time over gems any more 
 than I have over ceramics. To understand either of 
 these subjects a man must devote his whole life to 
 it. I hadn't the time, and so when they came in 
 my way I hired an expert to give me their true 
 value." 
 
 277
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Then I am to understand," I said, "that you 
 have never owned a famous flawless emerald?" 
 
 The old man regarded me curiously with his beady 
 eyes. "No," he answered, "never. Was that what 
 you wished to know ?" he added. 
 
 "Thank you, yes," I said, "and I will not trouble 
 you further." I raised my hat, the old man smiled in 
 return, and I turned on my heel and walked slowly 
 up the path. He was either a very truthful old gen- 
 tleman or a consummate actor, and I chose to be- 
 lieve the latter. 
 
 "Twelve thousand francs," I repeated again and 
 again as I walked up the hill. In my pocket I had 
 something over two thousand francs. The English 
 bank and the Credit Lyonnais were closed for the 
 day, and even had they been open my letter of credit 
 was hardly equal to the emergency. Half-way to the 
 hotel I stopped and looked up at the yellow walls of 
 the Casino. Through the open windows I could hear 
 the droning voices of the croupiers and the ceaseless 
 chink of the gold and silver pieces. Within, I knew 
 that the tables were covered with them, and in the 
 vaults below were many, many millions, and yet I 
 278
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 stood there impotent and routed, and only twelve 
 thousand francs between myself and victory. 
 
 "Black, black," I said to myself over and over 
 again, as I hurried on to the door of the Casino. I 
 walked to the first roulette table and put my two 
 thousand francs on the black. 
 
 "Dix, noir, pair et manque," called the croupier. 
 
 I left the money on the table and saw the little 
 marble once more fall into a black pocket. Some one 
 shoved two one-thousand-franc notes toward me and 
 left the remaining six on the color. For one moment 
 I tried to say "Rouge," but my throat was parched 
 and the same voice inside of me kept on whispering 
 "Black, black." "Vingt-six, noir, pair et passe," 
 sang out the croupier. I had played the maximum 
 and won. I gathered up the notes and stuck them 
 deep into my trousers pocket. "I win! I win!" I said 
 to myself as I hurried out of the Casino and started 
 on a run for the Galerie. For a moment I paused to 
 glance into the window of the jeweller's. The emerald 
 was gone! 
 
 I rushed into the shop. "There was," I gasped, 
 "an emerald in your window." 
 279
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Yes," said the woman behind the counter, "we 
 sold it but a few moments since." 
 
 "Of course," I answered, "to a friend of mine, an 
 old man, very short and stout, and with a Jewish 
 face." 
 
 The woman nodded and smiled. "It was a great 
 bargain, I think," she said, "but we had a rare op- 
 portunity to buy it very cheap." 
 
 Once more I climbed the hill, but I did not stop to 
 listen at the open windows of the Casino. I went to 
 my room in the hotel and threw myself on the bed. 
 I was tired and discouraged, and decided to take my 
 leave on the morrow never again did I want to see 
 Monte Carlo or Vanvoorst or Neimeyer. To be sure, 
 the latter had but come into his own, and I should 
 have been satisfied, but a pain about my heart told 
 me that it was not as I would have had it. In all my 
 dealings with the flawless emerald it appeared, after 
 all, that my interest had been solely inspired by 
 a desire in some way to assist Miss Caldara. And 
 now I was defeated in my hunt, and she would 
 never know how very hard I had toiled on her 
 behalf, and the smile and the word of thanks with 
 280
 
 "I put my money on the black."
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 which I had hoped to be rewarded were never to be 
 mine. 
 
 By the next morning I had decided to take the 
 first train for Genoa and from there to go on a short 
 tour of Italy. I packed my trunk, paid my bill at the 
 hotel, and started for the station. Arriving there, I dis- 
 covered that there had been an accident on the road, 
 and that my train would be at least an hour late. 
 I left my luggage at the station and walked up the 
 hill to have one more look at the gaming-tables, al- 
 though I was determined not to give back any of my 
 winnings. I left my hat and overcoat at the cloak- 
 room and stopped for a moment to speak to the 
 flower-girl, who had smilingly offered me a bouton- 
 niere. I turned my head, and at my right saw Nei- 
 meyer waiting to give his things to the attendant. 
 From his inside pocket he took a fat-looking pocket- 
 book, and, having extracted all the bank-notes it con- 
 tained, stuck it back in the pocket of his overcoat and 
 handed the latter to one of the girls who was taking 
 care of the wraps. As she gave him the brass coat- 
 check, I heard her say in French, "Thirty-four, a 
 lucky number. I wish you success with it." Neimeyer 
 281
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 smiled and bustled on toward the gambling rooms. I 
 was quite sure that he did not have the emerald with 
 him, and having considered the matter the evening 
 previous, I was equally sure that it was deposited in 
 the safe in the hotel office as it was hardly possible 
 that he would leave so valuable an article in his room. 
 If the emerald was in the safe at the hotel, then the 
 receipt in all probability was in the big pocket-book. 
 In any case, it seemed worth the chance; so I went 
 into the room and found the money-lender playing 
 his usually heavy game at trente-et-quarante. I re- 
 turned to the cloak-room, and, carefully picking out 
 one of the attendants who had not waited on Nei- 
 meyer, made a great pretence of looking for my hat- 
 check. 
 
 "It was number thirty-four," I said, "but I seem 
 to have lost it." 
 
 The woman smiled politely, but without apparent 
 interest in my loss. I took out a five-franc piece and 
 said that I was very considerably pressed for time. 
 Again the woman smiled politely and said that I had 
 probably left it on the table where I had been play- 
 ing. I took a louis out of my pocket and said that if 
 282
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 she could let me have my things it would be a great 
 convenience. 
 
 "It is very irregular," she said, as she handed me 
 Neimeyer's coat and hat, "and if you find the check 
 I hope that you will return it." 
 
 I think I said that I would, but did not waste very 
 much time in formalities. Once out of the Casino, I 
 hurriedly looked through Neimeyer's papers, and 
 among the first I discovered was the receipt for a 
 package left at the hotel. I held the paper in my hand 
 and walked hurriedly up to the clerk at the hotel 
 desk. 
 
 "Mr. Neimeyer," I said, "is having a rather bad 
 run of luck at the rooms and he sent me over for this 
 package," and I gave the clerk the receipt. The clerk 
 was apparently used to such hurry calls for money 
 and suspected nothing. My only fear was that the 
 package might look as if it did not contain bank- 
 notes, but the sight of a long white envelope relieved 
 me of all my fears. I left the hotel on a run for the 
 Casino, but once outside, I stopped to tear open the 
 envelope. It contained a plain white jewellers' box, 
 and in the box lay the emerald. I returned to the 
 283
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Casino, deposited Neimeyer's hat and coat with the 
 pocket-book in the pocket in which I had originally 
 found it. Then I went upstairs to the writing-room, 
 put twelve thousand francs in an envelope, addressed 
 it to Neimeyer at the Hotel de Paris, stamped and 
 mailed it, and, having taken out my own hat and 
 coat, walked down to the station and waited for the 
 train. I believe I actually did not have to walk up 
 and down the platform of that railway station for 
 over fifteen minutes, but it seemed to me an eternity. 
 Even when once started, I knew that there was an 
 excellent chance of being stopped, and I also knew 
 that in the next hour I should have crossed the boun- 
 dary line of three countries, and that the authorities 
 of Monaco did not care to mix in international legal 
 complications where it possibly could be avoided. 
 My greatest fear of detection was at Genoa, and so I 
 remained in my compartment and was carried on to 
 Pisa. 
 
 From Pisa I hurried on the same night to Leghorn, 
 
 where, as I had hoped, I found a vessel belonging to 
 
 one of the smaller steamship lines about to start for 
 
 New York. I might have taken a chance and re- 
 
 284
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 mained in the country, but I cannot say that my mind 
 was much attuned to sightseeing, and so I left Italy 
 a fugitive from justice just as a few weeks before I 
 had left my own country. Whatever had happened in 
 America since my departure in regard to the robbery 
 of the emerald I did not know or care. Now I was in 
 a position to make full reparation for a crime I had 
 never committed, and, with the flawless emerald 
 stuck deep down in my inside pocket, I feared 
 nothing. 
 
 My return voyage to America was long and un- 
 pleasant, but, once back in my old rooms in New 
 York, my first act was to write Miss Caldara a note 
 asking for an interview which I assured her would be 
 of great mutual benefit. The next morning I received 
 my answer, and that same afternoon I found myself 
 most comfortably ensconced in a deep chair in Miss 
 Caldara's Louis Quinze drawing-room and ready to 
 tell my story of the lost emerald. 
 
 Indeed, I could not have wished it otherwise; the 
 
 white-and-gold room was filled with great masses of 
 
 flowers and plants, and the whole place was aglow 
 
 with the orange light of the setting sun. Miss Caldara 
 
 285
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 and I sat on opposite sides of a cosey little tea-table, 
 and the fact that she told the maid that she was at 
 home to no one did not at all detract from my hap- 
 piness. 
 
 "You have come, no doubt," began Miss Caldara, 
 " to tell me of all your troubles in connection with that 
 awful emerald." 
 
 "I have," I answered, "but I was not aware that 
 you knew of my connection with the affair." 
 
 The actress smiled most pleasantly upon me. "I 
 fear, I know," she said, "much more than you sus- 
 pect, and if you will permit me I shall claim a woman's 
 privilege and tell my story first." 
 
 "I should be delighted," I said, and sank deeper 
 down in my chair with a feeling of real relief that I 
 had not yet told her that at that very moment I had 
 the emerald in my inside pocket. 
 
 "Not so very long ago," began Miss Caldara, "it 
 really seems but yesterday, I was given a very hand- 
 some emerald." 
 
 I smiled and made some remark to the effect that 
 I was not wholly ignorant of its existence. 
 
 "A short time after I had received the gift," con- 
 286
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 tinued Miss Caldara "I had a little supper party 
 here in my rooms to which I had invited Mr. Arthur 
 Kellard, Mr. Norman Vanvoorst, both of whom I 
 believe you know, and a Mr. Scott, whom I do not 
 think you have ever met. Mr. Vanvoorst is really a 
 very remarkable young man. He comes of an old 
 family and most unfortunately inherited a great deal 
 of money. Had such not been the case it is quite cer- 
 tain that he would have made an enviable career for 
 himself in any profession which he chose to adopt. 
 As it is, he has devoted his life to jeunes filles dances, 
 and dinner parties, with occasional relapses of tiger- 
 hunting in India, and more or less successful attempts 
 to break automobile records on circular tracks. He is 
 absolutely without fear, and is constantly trying to 
 find a new sensation; he is the best of talkers, and in 
 an argument insists on taking the wrong side and 
 always forming himself into the opposition. On the 
 occasion of the little supper party which I mentioned, 
 the subject of my recently acquired emerald and my 
 other jewels came up for discussion. I contended that 
 we should not really be allowed the responsibility of 
 owning such valuable jewels, as for the most part 
 287
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 women were extremely careless, and the only wonder 
 to me was that the robbery of valuable gems was so 
 very rare. Of course, Vanvoorst took the opposite 
 side and claimed that women were not at all careless, 
 and that the whole method of life of a woman rich 
 enough to own valuable jewels was a complete forti- 
 fication against robbers. 'Everything,' he said, 'to- 
 day is for the rich people and against the poor burg- 
 lar the private bank vaults, the safe at home, the 
 private detective in the theatre and at all the large 
 functions, and the maid with a pedigree of references 
 a yard long form a network around my lady's jewels 
 which makes them about as safe as if they were still 
 undug from the rocks in which they were formed. 
 All one has to do to prove my point is to look over the 
 police records there is hardly a case of the success- 
 ful robbery of valuable jewels. And it is for this that 
 I have lost all patience with the professional burglar. 
 He spends all of his time scheming to steal only the 
 most valuable jewels or trying to break into a bank, 
 and he generally gets a long sentence for his pains 
 when he might have devoted the same time to rob- 
 bing the fairly well-to-do class, made a comfortable
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 living, and without any particular danger of arrest 
 The middle classes know that the burglar cares really 
 only for the very rich, and as a consequence they are 
 absolutely unprepared for any attack on such goods 
 as they may possess. For instance, I cannot conceive 
 of any possible way of depriving you of your emerald, 
 but granted that it has passed into the hands of any 
 one who is not accustomed to the possession of arti- 
 cles of value, and I will guarantee to deprive him 
 of it within an hour from the time he first laid hands 
 on it.' 
 
 "A general argument followed, and the two men 
 took sides with Mr. Vanvoorst against me. To make 
 a long story short, the talk resulted in a wager in 
 which I bet Mr. Vanvoorst he could not willingly get 
 back my emerald in an hour from the time it had 
 come into another's possession. Of course the great 
 difficulty was to select the person to give it to. We 
 discussed many young men of our acquaintance, and 
 had about decided on a clerk in Mr. Kellard's office 
 when the latter suddenly thought of yourself, whom 
 he seems to have known fairly well in a business way, 
 and you were selected for the victim." 
 289
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 By this time I had recovered my composure, and 
 I found sufficient voice to ask Miss Caldara some 
 leading, but as I thought pertinent, questions. 
 
 "And then as I understand it," I said, "I was de- 
 coyed to the club to listen to the story of the flawless 
 emerald with the sole object of slipping me the jewel 
 at the stage door." 
 
 Miss Caldara smiled sympathetically. "Rather in- 
 genious of Van voorst, was it not ?" she said. 
 
 "And it was he who later robbed me ?" I asked. 
 
 "Quite so," answered the actress. "You see, he 
 found out that the apartment over your own was not 
 occupied, so he got the keys from the agent on the 
 pretence that he wanted to show them to a friend late 
 in the evening, and on the promise of returning them 
 the following morning. After he had slipped the 
 emerald into your pocket at the stage door he 
 took an automobile to your house, let himself into 
 the vacant apartment and came down to your 
 room by way of the fire-escape. It was really quite a 
 vindication of his theory, wasn't it?" Miss Caldara 
 smiled sweetly. 
 
 "It was," I said, "and I hope he won his wager. 
 290
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 He even had the documentary evidence to prove his 
 victory." 
 
 "Oh, yes," answered Miss Caldara, "but owing 
 to your delay in reaching your apartment that night 
 it was a question whether he really stole the jewel 
 within the stipulated time. When, however, he had 
 returned to my place after having relieved you of 
 the stone, and we had all thoroughly gone over the 
 terms of the wager, it turned out that in any case I 
 had lost on a simple technicality." 
 
 "You interest me greatly," I said, somewhat face- 
 tiously. 
 
 "You see," ran on Miss Caldara, "by the terms of 
 the agreement, I was to give him the emerald imme- 
 diately after I left the stage that night, so that he 
 could pass it on to you, but just before starting for 
 the theatre I weakened, left the real emerald at home 
 and took only the imitation in its place." 
 
 "The imitation?" I gasped. 
 
 "Yes," replied Miss Caldara. "You know that 
 nearly every actress has exact imitations made of her 
 jewels to wear on every-day, or, I should say, every- 
 night, occasions." 
 
 291
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Then the jewel which was stolen from me that 
 night," I asked, "was not the famous flawless em- 
 erald which young Neimeyer had given you?" 
 
 "It was a fine, flawless piece of green glass," said 
 the actress, smiling; "and young Neimeyer never 
 gave me anything. In fact, I never met the gentle- 
 man. That was an additional and, at least it seemed 
 to me, unnecessary fiction on the part of Mr. Van- 
 voorst to make sure that you would go to the 
 theatre." 
 
 "Then if I understand you aright," I said, "you 
 really did once own some sort of an emerald which 
 somebody gave you, and both it and its imita- 
 tion were in your possession after your robber friend 
 Vanvoorst had returned here that night with the 
 imitation stone which he took from me." 
 
 "Of course," said Miss Caldara. "Very lucky for 
 me, wasn't it ? " 
 
 "Very," I answered. "And have you got them 
 
 yet?" 
 
 "Certainly," said the actress. "The original is in 
 a vault at the bank and the imitation is in the 
 next room." Miss Caldara smiled in very joy of her 
 292
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 possessions, and my fingers unconsciously stole to 
 the package in my pocket containing the emerald I 
 had stolen from old Neimeyer. 
 
 " But why," I said, " did your friend Vanvoorst go 
 abroad immediately after the robbery?" 
 
 "That was quite natural," answered the actress. 
 "He had decided to sail on that date some time 
 previous to the night we made the wager, and we 
 fixed the date of the robbery to suit the sailing. I sup- 
 pose you thought it was just the other way. I got a 
 letter from Vanvoorst last week, and he told me that 
 he had had the pleasure of meeting you in the Casino 
 gardens at Monte Carlo. He also told me to be sure to 
 tell you, in case I should meet you, that he has had 
 the silver suspender-buckle fixed which gave you 
 both so much uneasiness. It seems the points of the 
 clasp were constantly sticking into him just over his 
 heart and under his upper waistcoat pocket. I won- 
 der if I have delivered the message properly? Per- 
 haps I had better show you his letter." 
 
 "Please don't disturb yourself," I begged. "I am 
 sure you have delivered the message perfectly." 
 
 "That's good," said Miss Caldara; "and now I 
 293
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 am going to have another cup of tea, and you can 
 tell me your story." 
 
 I sat for some moments looking across the little 
 table at a beautiful face crowned by great masses of 
 golden hair. For a brief space I closed my eyes, and 
 with the incredible swiftness of dreams my thoughts 
 went back to that senseless voyage to Italy, and the 
 heavy-scented flowers in the room seemed to recall 
 to me those unhappy days at Monte Carlo. How I 
 hated it all! And yet how different it all might be 
 to go back to those gardens, not in search of a flaw- 
 less emerald, but just for rest with the full spirit of 
 content to go back, not alone, but with one so 
 beautiful as 
 
 "Well?" said Miss Caldara. The maid had left 
 the room; we were alone again. 
 
 "My story," I said, "seems to begin about where 
 yours left off. It is even then quite a long story, and 
 I fear it is near the time for you to go to the theatre. 
 I think we had better postpone it until another day, 
 and when, perhaps, I know you a little better. I 
 should like very much, however, before I go, to see 
 your emerald." 
 
 294
 
 THE FLAWLESS EMERALD 
 
 Miss Caldara went into another room and brought 
 back a leather case. From it she took a jewel and 
 handed it to me. 
 
 "This is only the imitation," she said; "the real 
 one, unfortunately, is at the bank. Do you recognize 
 it? You should, for it was once yours for a whole 
 hour." 
 
 I took from my pocket the emerald I had brought 
 from Monte Carlo and laid the two stones side by 
 side on Miss Caldara's writing-table. In size and in 
 the cutting they were almost identical, the only vari- 
 ance being in the mounting of the gold clasp at the 
 back, and even in this there was but little difference. 
 
 "You must know a great deal about gems," I said. 
 "What do you think of this one ?" 
 
 The actress looked at it curiously for some time 
 and then held it up to the light. 
 
 "It's quite flawless," she said. "They make the 
 imitations so well nowadays that only an expert can 
 distinguish the good from the bad; at least I know I 
 cannot tell the difference. This may be worth a great 
 fortune, and it may be a piece of glass. It is certainly 
 one or the other any jeweller can tell you." 
 295
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Whatever it is," I said, "I travelled a long way 
 to get it, and the only thought I ever had was to 
 bring it back to you." 
 
 Miss Caldara looked up at me and smiled, and in 
 answer shook her head. 
 
 "You are very good," she said, "but some day 
 there will be a girl who will have a right to it, and 
 then you might be sorry that you had given it to me. 
 I hope that it is really a flawless emerald, and that 
 she will be worthy of it." 
 
 And so the stone lies to-day in a drawer in the room 
 in which I was once so ignominiously robbed, and I 
 fear, will continue to lie there unless some one should 
 again choose to visit me by way of the fire-escape. 
 Whether it is worth a fortune, or whether it is a piece 
 of green glass, I really do not know, for I have never 
 shown it to any one. I often, however, take it out and 
 look at it late at night and when I am alone. I value 
 it greatly, not for its possible intrinsic worth, but 
 because I regard it as the stepping-stone to my 
 present greatest possession the true friendship of 
 Ada Caldara. 
 
 296
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 SPIRIT
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 SPIRIT 
 
 1 HE bachelor apartments of Henry Carmichael had 
 long been mildly celebrated among the many young 
 women who counted themselves his friends. It was 
 not the unusual luxury of the rooms, although there 
 was quite enough of that, too, even for a young man 
 with a carefully invested fortune and no real respon- 
 sibilities ; but Carmichael had in many ways strongly 
 impressed upon the place his own personality. Dur- 
 ing his thirty years of life he had travelled far and 
 in many different directions, and had met many peo- 
 ple. Inherited wealth and position, to which he had 
 added geography, had supplied him with numberless 
 chance acquaintances and a few friends, and long 
 since he had adopted the excellent practice of never 
 keeping a letter or destroying a photograph. 
 
 Thus the story of his life it so pleased his young 
 women friends to believe was somewhere to be 
 299
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 found carefully framed, and more or less carefully 
 autographed, about the little study wherein he read 
 the morning papers and wrote and accepted invita- 
 tions to dinner. The only difficulty was to find the 
 photograph among the many, and the variety of the 
 subjects and their constant kaleidoscopic change 
 from ostentatious conspicuousness to almost total 
 eclipse added no little zest to the game. The gallery 
 of feminine beauty covered the walls, interfered with 
 the face of the clock on the mantel over the fireplace, 
 cramped his writing-desk, and suffocated the big 
 centre table. 
 
 There were heavily framed photographs that 
 looked like mezzotints, of women in flowered bro- 
 cades, women who ruled modern society in New 
 York and London and Paris; little photographs of 
 young girls in simple dinner dresses or short duck 
 skirts and sailor hats, who some day would rule, too, 
 in their mothers' places; pictures of women of the 
 Paris stage and the cafe concerts, signed with the 
 most sincere expressions of regard and undying 
 affection; little and big photographs of every kind of 
 the present day Broadway favorites, from skittish 
 300
 
 CAR MICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 soubrettes and smiling ingenues to hollow-eyed lead- 
 ing women and ponderous dramatic sopranos from 
 the Metropolitan Opera House. Mixed with this in- 
 congruous collection was here and there a picture of 
 a handsome Englishwoman, who from her signature 
 of one name and her coronet could easily be detected 
 as a person of title; and the gallery even boasted of 
 one woman who would some day, if she lived long 
 enough, wear a real crown. 
 
 On this particular Christmas eve Carmichael came 
 into his study and smilingly glanced about at the 
 array of photographic friends, and then, assuming a 
 more serious aspect, went into the dining-room and 
 looked over the carefully arranged table. His knowing 
 eye travelled quickly over the snow-white damask, 
 the thin tall glasses with their tapering stems, the 
 heavy silver, and the great bunch of American 
 beauties rising above a massive loving cup, which he 
 himself had won at golf. With a smile of content the 
 young man returned once more to the study, lit a 
 cigarette, and waited. 
 
 He did not have long to wait; for as the clock 
 chimed eight Miss Rita Maynard was shown in, and 
 301
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Carmichael greeted her with the effusion of a very 
 old and admiring friend. 
 
 "Am I the very first?" she asked. 
 
 Carmichael paid no heed to her question ; but took 
 one of her hands in each of his, and, spreading them 
 apart, looked with undisguised admiration at the 
 broad clear brow, the crisp curling hair, the slanting 
 eyes, the pink cheeks with their wonderful contour, 
 the full rounded throat, and the ivory shoulders. 
 
 "Rita, you know," he said at last, dropping her 
 hands, "it isn't right to look like that. I saw you the 
 other night some place, and thought then that you 
 had hung up an entirely new record for beauty; but 
 really, you know, if I looked in my glass and saw 
 something like that I should feel just as much pleased 
 as if I had written a great novel or composed a 
 national anthem." 
 
 "How about the dress-maker?" and Miss May- 
 nard glanced with a smile of pride down at the 
 straight filmy white dress. 
 
 "Beautiful!" he said. "And of course that all 
 helps; but really you oughtn't to go to a bachelor 
 apartment looking like that; it's not safe." 
 302
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 Miss Maynard crossed over to the fireplace and, 
 resting both hands on the mantel shelf, looked at the 
 long row of photographs. 
 
 "I'm not afraid," she said. "Indeed, Harry, I 
 don't know any place where one feels so well chap- 
 eroned as here dowagers and duchesses all about 
 one, and simple innocent little girls who ought to 
 be in short frocks instead of ball dresses; and then 
 all these stage ladies who would fairly battle for 
 you if you looked at another woman that is, if 
 you are willing to believe half they write on their 
 photographs. What became of the girl you used 
 to have here in front of the clock? She was a very 
 impressive blonde as I remember her; looked like 
 a young matron. The present one seems to have 
 rather dark hair and an angel-child smirk. Who is 
 she?" 
 
 Carmichael went over to the fireplace and took up 
 the photograph and, looking at it carefully, drew his 
 lips in to a straight line. "That's a very nice girl," he 
 said. "The features of the blonde matron got harder 
 and harder every day. I don't know whether it was 
 leaning against those jangling chimes, or just married 
 303
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 life; but I had to sky her. "He waved his hand in the 
 direction of the panel over the doorway. "There she 
 is, between Mettie Carlisle, the lady in the bathing 
 suit, and Lady Margaret Donald, the British per- 
 sonage with her hair in a mop. And she'll stay there 
 too. Anybody that has to be hung with a step-ladder 
 has reached her final niche in my gallery. She never 
 can be a head-liner again." 
 
 "What an awful fate!" Miss Maynard sighed. "It 
 was very good of you to ask us to-night. Who are 
 'us'?" 
 
 "Well, there are the Jim Hoaglands, and the 
 Arthur Lowrys, and Ledyard and his wife, and the 
 Henrys, and you and I ten of us." 
 
 "My!" said Miss Maynard, "but that crowd does 
 make one feel terribly unmarried ! Every time I look 
 about the table I shall feel that I've shirked my 
 responsibilities." 
 
 "Not at all; I asked them on purpose. They're all 
 married, and naturally all play bridge. After dinner 
 I'm going to have two tables in the library, and you 
 and I can come out here and talk it over." 
 
 "The dinner?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. 
 304
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 "Rita," he said, "if you look like that I'm likely 
 to talk or rave about anything !" 
 
 "Even me, Harry?" 
 
 "Even you, Rita, even you." 
 
 And then the other guests began to arrive, and for 
 the time being Carmichael saw little of Miss May- 
 nard. 
 
 "This dinner," said Carmichael when they were 
 all seated at table, "is the result of a purely selfish 
 idea of mine to bring a little of what is called the 
 Christmas spirit into a poor bachelor's apartment. 
 I can't call it a home because any bachelor apart- 
 ment is a disgrace to the name. I suppose you good 
 married women would have preferred a few unat- 
 tached young men to chat with you, and you old 
 men would have rather liked to sit between very 
 foolish young girls; but I wanted only old friends and 
 the kind who might leave a little of the aroma of 
 home about the place after you had gone back to 
 your Christmas trees. Rita's presence needs no ex- 
 cuse. She is the only jeune file here; first, because she 
 is my oldest friend, for we played together as children, 
 and second, because she doesn't play bridge now." 
 305
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Is this a speech?" asked Hoagland. "Because if 
 it is I should think this woujd be the psychological 
 moment to drink somebody's health Miss May- 
 nard's preferred by all means." 
 
 "Ah 1 right," said Carmichael; "but before I con- 
 clude my rhetoric I want to warn you that you bridge 
 players had better fix your points now, because while 
 the dinner is to be short it will be rather rich and con- 
 ducive to large stakes." 
 
 After this Carmichael gave way to the others, and 
 the dinner passed on as happily as small, well-ap- 
 pointed dinners among friends are apt to do. Being 
 but a small party, the conversation was general; so 
 that every story, even every new and old joke, had 
 its listeners, and before the end every one had drunk 
 jokingly to the good health of every one else; that is, 
 except in the case of the toast to Carmichael. This 
 was proposed by Rita Maynard, and perhaps it was 
 on account of the wonderful beauty of the girl, as 
 she stood with her uplifted glass, or perhaps it was 
 that in her voice and in her manner there was a cer- 
 tain note of sincerity; but whatever it was, the toast 
 was quite different from the others. 
 306
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 * 
 
 "I propose," she had said, with a certain hesita- 
 tion in her words, " that we drink to the good health 
 and happiness of our host, and also to his hope that 
 he may find a little of the Christmas spirit to-night 
 after we have gone. For all the kindly things he has 
 done during his lifetime, I think he deserves it more 
 than any one I know." 
 
 True to the host's word, the dinner was a short 
 one, and it was not much later than nine when, the 
 tables having been set for bridge, the game was well 
 under way, and Miss Maynard and Cannichael had 
 returned to the little study. 
 
 "Did you ever see the view from these windows 
 on a winter night like this?" Carmichael asked, as 
 he pulled back the curtains. The girl crossed the 
 room to his side, and for some moments they stood 
 at the high French windows silently looking out 
 on the park, a great stretch of newly fallen snow 
 and the trees sheathed in ice, and every twig 
 and branch glistening in the white glare of the 
 electric lights. 
 
 "No," she said, "I don't think I ever have. You 
 know this is the first time I have been here this year. 
 307
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 -S 
 It's quite wonderful, isn't it? Harry, we don't see 
 
 nearly enough of each other in winter." 
 
 "I know. It really seems as if we could get to- 
 gether only in summer, doesn't it ? But I think that 
 is usually the way with one's real friends. That was a 
 nice little speech you made, Rita, very nice." And he 
 dropped his hand to his side and gave hers a gentle 
 pressure. "I suppose," he continued, "if you really 
 wanted to, you could get the true Christmas spirit out 
 there in the snow? Even now there may be some 
 poor devil freezing in the park yonder, and you 
 wouldn't have to look very far through the tenements 
 over on the West Side to get a chance to make a hit 
 as Santa Claus, would you ? " 
 
 Miss Maynard walked over to the fire and settled 
 back in a deep easy chair, with the tips of her satin 
 slippers resting on the fender. "Is that your idea of 
 the Christmas spirit?" she asked. 
 
 Carmichael still stood looking out at the snow and 
 beating a slow tattoo on the window pane with his 
 knuckles. "Oh, I don't know just what I do mean. 
 I suppose the real significance of the day has all 
 gone, so far as I am concerned; but it's left a sort of 
 308
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 general desire to want to do something for somebody 
 for no particular reason." The young man came over 
 and sat on a low stool at the girl's feet, with his back 
 to the fire. 
 
 "It's just one of those bugaboos that all we bach- 
 elors fall heir to. For some reason I never can sepa- 
 rate the idea of home and Christmas. You can hang 
 up all the red-ribboned wreaths you choose, and you 
 can dress your married friends' trees for your married 
 friends' children, and you can eat your married 
 friends' Christmas dinners; but it isn't really Christ- 
 mas, because it isn't really home." 
 
 Miss Maynard glanced about the room. "Some 
 people would call this a pretty good home; and you 
 seem to have plenty of friends," she added, nodding 
 her head at the long row of photographs on the shelf 
 over the fireplace. 
 
 " Those photographs ? They're a bluff. You know 
 what I mean, Rita." 
 
 "Of course I know what you mean, and I'm glad 
 
 of it. Sometimes, Harry, I'm only afraid you won't 
 
 feel that way about things. I know there are a lot of 
 
 foolish women who make a fuss over you, and I fear 
 
 309
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 sometimes you can't stand it and that it will make 
 you different. Are all these photographs bluffs?" 
 
 Carmichael nodded. "Pretty much. You know 
 how it is. Men affect women so differently. There 
 are some men, generally very fine citizens, whom 
 women fly from, and there are others they want to 
 fly with, and still others they want to give their pho- 
 tographs to and have to tea when their husbands are 
 downtown. I'm in the last class. Then, I suppose, 
 they have heard of my gallery of international beau- 
 ties, and want to be represented." 
 
 From the table at her side Miss Maynard picked 
 up a large photograph of herself in a silver frame 
 and looked at it quite impersonally. "A bluff?" she 
 asked, holding it up so that Carmichael could see it. 
 
 "No," he said, "that is the only picture that I 
 insist must never be moved. It's a permanent quan- 
 tity always been in the same place for years." 
 
 "Always in the same place for years ?" the girl re- 
 peated slowly. "Who changes the others, then, with 
 so much taste, and creates all this mystery in the 
 breasts of your young women friends?" 
 
 "My man does all that," Carmichael answered 
 310
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 promptly, "and it's one of his most cherished per- 
 quisites. It doesn't cost me anything, and it gives him 
 a great deal of pleasure. He's terribly fickle, though 
 he features two or three a week some weeks. And 
 what he sees in some of them I cannot understand, 
 and yet it seems a little familiar for me to ask him. 
 There was a hand-painted photograph of a Hunga- 
 rian dancer that he was crazy about. He set her up 
 against my ink-well first, and when I threw her into 
 the waste-paper basket he fished her out and leaned 
 her against the lamp on the table there. It lit her up 
 like a spotlight. I hid her behind books and in closets 
 and in every out-of-the-way corner in the place; but 
 the next day there she would be with her tinted beauty 
 presiding over the dining-room or the bath-room or 
 any old place, till I had to cremate her in the grate." 
 
 "It's little wonder then," said Miss Maynard, 
 "that no one has ever been able to find the real one." 
 
 Carmichael smiled and clasped his hands about 
 his knees. "Ah!" he repeated, "the real one, eh?" 
 
 The girl sat up straight in her chair, and in imita- 
 tion of her host clasped her hands about her knees 
 and then looked him fairly in the eyes. "Yes, please 
 311
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 tell me, Harry; I'm such an old friend. Which is the 
 one?" 
 
 Carmichael smiled up at the girl, and then slowly 
 pulled himself to his feet. "You don't mind if I 
 smoke, do you?" 
 
 Miss Maynard shook her head, and the young man 
 crossed the room to find a cigar, and then returned to 
 his place at the fire. He took a match-box from his 
 pocket, and as he slowly lit his cigar the red light 
 from the hearth fell full on his face. 
 
 "After all, Rita," he said, "what's the use?" 
 
 The girl impulsively put out her hand and laid it 
 on his arm. "Why, Harry," she whispered, "I'm so 
 sorry! I didn't understand. You know we've seen so 
 little of each other lately. I thought they were all 
 you know just bluffs." The girl tossed her head 
 toward the pictures over the fireplace. 
 
 "Well," he said, "so they are; the one is the only 
 one that isn't here. Don't you believe, Rita, that 
 every author knows one story that he never writes, 
 and every painter one picture that he would rather 
 starve than put on canvas ? I do. 
 
 "But she used to be here," he went on. "There 
 312
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 was a little picture of her on the table over there and 
 another on the top of the desk, and one on the man- 
 tel, and there was a big one on the piano. Wherever 
 you looked you could see her. She was everywhere; 
 at least, so it seemed to me. And there was another 
 one of her on my bureau. She looked particularly 
 bright in that one, and sort of piquant and very 
 cheery, and every morning when I got up I used to 
 say good-morning to her." 
 
 Miss Maynard leaned forward, resting her elbows 
 on her knees and holding her chin between the palms 
 of her hands. "You knew her very well," she asked, 
 "and for a long time ?" 
 
 Carmichael nodded. "Yes, for quite a long time 
 too long, I suppose." 
 
 "What what was she like, Harry? Do you 
 mind?" 
 
 Carmichael stared at the fire and shook his head. 
 "No, of course I don't mind," he said; "that is, to 
 you. I like to talk about her." 
 
 For some moments he hesitated, and then went on 
 again. "It's hard, in a way, because it's so difficult 
 to give one an idea of personality, and that's about 
 313
 
 all that really counts, isn't it? She was very pretty 
 too, in a way her expression was always changing; 
 it seemed as if it reflected every shade of every thought 
 and idea she had, and she certainly had wonderful 
 thoughts and ideas. I think she had the clearest, 
 cleanest grasp of things and the broadest and most 
 sane philosophy of life of any woman or man I have 
 ever known. I suppose it was because she h? d had 
 rather a hard time of it, and experience had taught her 
 much that many girls never know. She had what the 
 artist folk call temperament, too, and with her intel- 
 ligence she ought to have made the greatest actress 
 of our day." 
 
 " She was on the stage ? " Miss Maynard asked. 
 
 "Yes, still is." 
 
 "Isn't she clever I mean on the stage ?" 
 
 Carmichael shook his head. "No, and never will 
 be, I imagine. With all her intelligence and good 
 looks, she lacks the one essential thing the trick the 
 actors call ' getting it over the footlights.' " 
 
 "Then why " 
 
 "Why," interrupted Carmichael "why ? Oh, 
 just because she is independent and doesn't want to 
 314
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 admit failure. I don't think the stage meant anything 
 to her but her rent and board; but she liked to pay 
 for those herself, and I think the success of other 
 women, with only half her talents, annoyed her and 
 hurt her pride, and she had a great deal of that." 
 
 For some moments there was silence, while Car- 
 michael twisted his cigar slowly between his lips and 
 the girl still sat looking into the fire. It was she who 
 broke the silence. 
 
 "Who were her friends ?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't know that she had any real 
 friends. The first time I met her was at a sort of Bo- 
 hemian supper, and I couldn't understand exactly 
 why she was there at all. She worried me a good deal 
 for a time; that is, until I got to know her. I thought 
 at first that she must be ignorant of their moral point 
 of view, because I knew from everything about her 
 that she couldn't possibly share it. And then after- 
 ward I talked to her about it, and her knowledge was 
 just as much greater than mine as her charity was. 
 Why, Rita, she saw people just as we would see things 
 through that magnifying glass over there on the table. 
 For a long time after that she used to come here in 
 315
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the afternoon and sit at the tea-table and drink tea, 
 and I would drink Scotch and smoke and listen to 
 her. It was wonderful how she accepted her share of 
 life always with a smile on her lips." 
 
 "Still," said the girl, "her share of life was more or 
 less what she made it. After all, her lot might have 
 been different; that is, if I understand you I mean 
 how much you cared." 
 
 "Yes, it might have been different," Carmichael 
 said; "but she chose her failure on the stage and the 
 hall bedroom and the one dress and the one hat. I 
 tell you, Rita, the hall bedroom and the one dress 
 and the one hat have had almost as much effect on 
 some girls' lives in this town as mothers' prayers. 
 What do you think?" 
 
 For answer Miss Maynard sat back in the deep 
 chair and, looking at Carmichael, slowly shook her 
 head. "I think," she said, "there must have been 
 some other reason. Admitting that she had the high- 
 est motives in the world, it is difficult to understand 
 why she should have chosen the hall bedroom instead 
 of all this." The girl glanced about the room and then 
 back at Carmichael. "Of course, Harry, if you were 
 
 316
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 an ogre, it would have been different; but you are not 
 an ogre. In fact, I understand all mothers and most 
 daughters call you eligible. It really seems as if she 
 might have brought herself to care a little." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Carmichael, slowly weighing his 
 words, "perhaps she cared too much. She had an 
 absurd idea of the world that you, for instance, be- 
 long to; probably because she knew so little of it. I 
 think you represented to her everything that a woman 
 ought to be certainly the type of woman I ought to 
 marry." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes, you. I had talked to her a lot about you, 
 and " 
 
 "And the one photograph," Miss Maynard inter- 
 rupted, "that was never moved ?" 
 
 Carmichael nodded. "I suppose so. She said that 
 her visits here were nothing but a bundle of faded 
 letters tied with a ribbon and hid away in the bureau 
 drawer at the actors' boarding-house the kind of 
 letters that a woman marks 'Burn without opening,' 
 and only reads when her husband is downtown and 
 she is discouraged and wants to bring on a good cry." 
 317
 
 THE S T A G E DOOR 
 
 "And what was the end of all this ? There's always 
 an end." 
 
 "The end was that she was very ill, and I did every- 
 thing that a man who has a certain amount of brains 
 and a good deal of money could do for a woman. The 
 fact that she was sick made it possible, where it 
 wasn't possible before." 
 
 "And then ?" the girl asked. 
 
 "And then I found out, just as every man finds 
 out when a woman he cares for is really ill: it's the 
 only perfectly sure test I know. And when she was 
 quite well and at work again, and her pride had come 
 back, I asked her to tea, and after tea, I told her my 
 discovery. It was a very important one to me; but not 
 to her, it seemed. Then I collected all her photo- 
 graphs, and we sat here just as you and I are sitting 
 here to-night, and one by one I tore the photographs 
 in two and put them in the fire and they burned up. 
 I told her that I was a strong man, and liked a fight; 
 but I knew when I was beaten : that it was a case of 
 marrying me, or saying good-by. That evening I went 
 out to my cottage at Rye, where I made the caretaker 
 cook for a friend and me for two days. For those two 
 318
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 days I did exactly what I had always read about men 
 doing in novels and what I had seen them do on the 
 stage. I tramped up and down and talked and raved 
 about her to the man whom I had brought along for 
 the purpose, and he was just as sympathetic as I knew 
 he was going to be. At the end of two days I had ex- 
 hausted myself and my friend, and I came back here 
 to the blank spaces where her photographs used to be 
 and to the empty wicker chair where she used to sit. 
 
 "That is all a year ago, and since those two days 
 until to-night I have never spoken to any one about 
 her; but the blank spaces are still blank spaces, al- 
 though they have been filled with many faces; and 
 the spirit of home which she brought here in those 
 days is just as lacking to me as if the rooms were 
 stripped and the packing boxes were standing in the 
 hallway." 
 
 "And you have never seen her since?" 
 
 "Yes. Several times on the stage, and once, just 
 the other day, I met her in the street." 
 
 "Did you speak to her?" 
 
 "No; but I wanted to take her in my arms and 
 carry her away anywhere. There was such a tired 
 319
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 look in her eyes, and her face was so peaked, and 
 she seemed so terribly worn and poor." 
 
 "And you didn't speak to her?" 
 
 "No; she would have preferred it that way. I know 
 her so well, Rita." 
 
 "Perhaps one never knows. Women have been 
 known to change." 
 
 Carmichael looked up and smilingly shook his 
 head. "Not this woman," he said. 
 
 "Is she playing here now?" Miss Maynard asked. 
 "I suppose it's absurdly curious of me; but I should 
 like to see her after all that you have told me." 
 
 "Yes, she's playing down the street at the Majes- 
 tic. Her name is Alice Yorke, and she plays the part 
 of a younger sister, and her performance is just as 
 bad as the play. I've seen it a dozen times or more, 
 and I ought to know. It's terrible." 
 
 Miss Maynard smiled cheerfully. "Come on, 
 Harry. I hear the others coming, and I must be going 
 home; it's nearly eleven o'clock now. Are you going 
 to the club or any place that I can drop you ?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Rita," he said. "I think I'll read 
 a bit and go to bed." 
 
 320
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 They were joined a moment later by the bridge 
 players, who impressively thanked Carmichael for 
 his true hospitality in leaving them so uninterrupt- 
 edly alone to their game. And then they told him 
 individually and in chorus how much they had en- 
 joyed the dinner, and every one bade every one else 
 good-night and exchanged the best of wishes for a 
 merry Christmas. 
 
 For just a moment after the others had left the 
 room Rita Maynard lingered while Carmichael 
 arranged her cloak for her. 
 
 "Thank you so much, Harry!" she whispered. 
 "It was such a good friendly talk. Don't think too 
 long of the blank spaces. Good-night and good luck." 
 
 Five minutes later Miss Maynard 's automobile 
 drew up at the stage door of the Majestic Theatre, 
 and the door-keeper was so overcome by the radiant 
 beauty of the young woman and the richness of her 
 mantle that for once he forgot to be churlish and 
 promptly led her to the deserted stage. 
 
 The performance had been over for some little 
 time; but the door-keeper was quite sure that Miss 
 Yorke was still in her dressing-room. In any case he 
 321
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 would make sure, and so he climbed the spiral stair- 
 case which led to the dressing-rooms and told Miss 
 Yorke that the most beautiful "society" lady he had 
 ever seen was waiting for her with an automobile. 
 
 The two women met on the dimly lit stage, and* 
 perhaps it was from the unusual surroundings, or 
 for one reason or another, it was only the visitor who 
 showed any signs of embarrassment. 
 
 "I'm Miss Maynard," she began, "and my only 
 excuse for coming to see you to-night is that I am 
 a very old friend of a friend of yours Harry Car- 
 michael." 
 
 Miss Yorke smiled brightly and put out her hand. 
 "I am very glad to meet you," she said. "Mr. Car- 
 michael is, or was, a great friend of mine." 
 
 For a moment the actress waited, while Miss 
 Maynard mentally groped about for the words with 
 which to explain her mission. The poise of the girl, 
 and something in the ease of her manner and the 
 frankness with which she met her glance, was a little 
 confusing. 
 
 "Have you anything to do now, I mean?" Miss 
 Maynard asked. 
 
 322
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 Miss Yorke shook her head. "Nothing," she said. 
 
 "Well, if you don't think it too great an imperti- 
 nence, I'm going to ask you if you won't take a little 
 drive with me through the park. I want to say some- 
 thing to you so much, and I could say it so much 
 better to you there than here." 
 
 "I'd love to go," Miss Yorke said, and smilingly 
 glanced about at the heavy set-pieces, the rows of flat 
 scenes piled up against rough brick walls, and the 
 watch light with its single gas flame burning dimly in 
 the centre of the stage. "I'm afraid it is rather con- 
 fusing to you here," she added. "Shall we go ?" 
 
 Just what was said between the two girls in Miss 
 Maynard's automobile that night as they raced over 
 the snow-covered roads of the deserted park has 
 never been, and in all probability never will be, 
 known. And the reason for this no doubt is that 
 although until that night they had been strangers, 
 each girl must have told the other something that 
 heretofore she had kept in her own heart and had 
 never told to any one. But, be that as it may, at least 
 the result of that talk is now well known. 
 
 At the hour when Santa Claus was at his busiest, 
 323
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 filling stockings with candy and toys and hanging 
 gold stars and little pink cupids on Christmas trees 
 all over the big city, Rita Maynard's automobile 
 stopped once more that night at the home of Henry 
 Carmichael. The two girls went up to the floor of 
 his apartment together, and when Carmichael him- 
 self came to the door in answer to their ring he found 
 them standing together, with Rita Maynard's arm 
 about the shoulders of her new friend. 
 
 For just a moment Carmichael stood in the door- 
 way a little dazed; and then he understood, and held 
 out his arms to her. 
 
 "Harry," Miss Maynard said, "I've brought you 
 a little of the Christmas spirit you were talking 
 about." And then she gently urged Alice Yorke 
 toward the doorway. "I'll wait for you in the car," 
 she added; "don't be long." 
 
 When Rita Maynard had left Miss Yorke at the 
 actors' boarding-house on the West Side, and her work 
 was done, and well done, she started for her own 
 home. Her cloak drawn tightly about her throat and 
 shoulders, her arms folded, her head resting against 
 324
 
 CARMICHAEL'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 the cushions, the girl with wide-open eyes stared at 
 the design of the brocade with which the top of the 
 automobile was lined. 
 
 It was just midnight when she reached her des- 
 tination, and the bells were ringing out the news 
 which has meant so many things to so many people 
 for so many years. She got out of the automobile, and 
 had almost reached the steps of her home, when the 
 clamor of the bells seemed to bring her back to her- 
 self and her surroundings, and she turned toward 
 the chauffeur. 
 
 "Good-night, Donald," she said, "and a Merry 
 Christmas to you." 
 
 The chauffeur smiled broadly, nodded, and 
 touched his cap. "Thank you, miss," he said; "and 
 a Merry Christmas to you too." 
 
 For a moment the girl hesitated while the two 
 words of thanks which she would have spoken died 
 in her throat, and with uncertain steps and misty 
 eyes she went slowly on up the steps of her home. 
 
 325
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 'C^OME in!" said the Junior Partner. 
 
 The door to the private office opened, and a young 
 girl stood silhouetted against the glare of yellow light 
 of the big room outside. 
 
 "Did you wish to see me, Mr. Grey?" the girl 
 asked. 
 
 The Junior Partner glanced up from the mass of 
 papers lying on his desk. "No, Miss Lorelle; I 
 wanted Miss Agnew." 
 
 "I'm afraid she's gone home; it's after six o'clock." 
 
 "Of course, of course, I quite forgot," Grey said. 
 "I wanted her to take a letter for me. You are not 
 a stenographer, are you?" 
 
 She smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid not. 
 Could I write it in long hand ?" 
 
 The Junior Partner turned to his papers. "No, 
 thank you," he said. "I suppose every one has 
 gone?" 
 
 329
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Yes, every one." The girl closed the door softly 
 and returned to her desk. 
 
 The Junior Partner signed the first few letters of 
 the many that lay before him, and then pushed the 
 remainder petulantly away from him. He swung 
 slowly about on his swivel chair and looked with 
 unseeing eyes at the walls of the little room. It was 
 an unusually attractive room for an office. Above the 
 walnut wainscoting there hung some fine old por- 
 traits of the founders of the firm, and the rest of the 
 room fairly lived up to the dignity of the old gentle- 
 men in the very high collars and the ruffled shirt 
 fronts. The dark-green curtains, which were drawn, 
 were of heavy brocade, and the deep leather chairs 
 and sofa were of substantial build and almost luxu- 
 rious in their comfort. The light from a coal grate 
 glowed on andirons and a fender of highly polished 
 brass, and beyond threw flickering shadows across a 
 rug of much softness and great warmth of color. The 
 fire-light, and the desk lamp of one lonely shaded 
 globe, made but a feeble effort toward brightening 
 the dull surroundings. 
 
 The Junior Partner swung clear around on his 
 330
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 chair, touched an electric bell on the desk for the 
 second time that evening, and then, with sudden 
 dexterity, took his stand in front of the fireplace. 
 "Come in, Miss Lorelle!" he called. 
 
 The young girl came in and waited in the centre 
 of the room, standing fairly in the light of the fire. 
 The Junior Partner glanced at the black dress, 
 closely fitted to the tall, lithe figure; at the white 
 paper cuff pinned on her writing arm; and at the 
 lace collar about the full white throat. Without 
 meeting her eyes, he motioned to one of two large 
 arm-chairs that stood on each side of the hearth. 
 "Won't you sit down ?" he said. 
 
 The girl inclined her head and moved with a 
 grace of great charm until she found herself in front 
 of the chair. Then she suddenly seemed to become 
 conscious of the fact that to sit about a fire with a 
 member of the firm of which she was a humble em- 
 ployee was an entirely new and rather humorous 
 sensation. She cast one glance of protest at the 
 Junior Partner, and then, clumsily enough, sat 
 down, hunched up on the edge of the big arm-chair. 
 
 The Junior Partner sat far back in his chair 
 331
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 opposite her, crossed his legs, and for a few moments 
 gazed reflectively into the fireplace. He was ac- 
 counted a very clever business man; but he was also 
 a very young man, and so he approached a new 
 situation with a manner which was always inten- 
 tionally deliberate and often unconvincing. 
 
 "Miss Lorelle," he said slowly, "I think I had the 
 pleasure of seeing you the other night in the palace 
 scene of 'The King's Fool.' Am I right?" 
 
 The girl did not look up, but clasped her hands 
 slowly about her right knee, and interlaced the 
 fingers tightly together. "Yes," she said. "I won- 
 dered at the time if you had recognized me." For a 
 few moments she groped about for something more 
 to say, while the young man gazed steadfastly at the 
 burning coals. "Did you like the play, Mr. Grey?" 
 she asked at last. 
 
 "I liked you," Grey said. 
 
 Miss Lorelle smiled and glanced at him from the 
 corner of her eye. "I don't quite understand I only 
 walk on in that one scene. An extra girl could hardly 
 impress one, I should think, very much one way or 
 the other." 
 
 332
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 "Not at all," said the Junior Partner. "It was 
 because you stood out so easily from the rest and with 
 so little opportunity, that I liked you. And then be- 
 sides you had a few lines which I thought you read 
 uncommonly well." 
 
 "That's right, I did have lines that night. They 
 don't really belong to me, but the girl who usually 
 has them was away." 
 
 Once more the conversation flagged even more 
 ominously than before. This time it was the man 
 who broke the silence. "Did you ever seriously con- 
 sider going on the stage ?" 
 
 The girl unclasped her hands and slid back into 
 the depths of the big leather chair. The glow from 
 the coals fell full on the wavy mass of hair brushed 
 back clear from the broad white forehead, on the 
 oval face, on the slanting eyes, the delicately pen- 
 cilled eyebrows, the heavy lashes, and the finely 
 cut nose and chin- A faint flush rose above the 
 swelling throat and spread over the cheeks and 
 temples. "Yes, sometimes I have thought I should 
 like to go on the stage," she said. "I mean regularly. 
 Why?" 
 
 333
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "You have never been on the stage regularly?" 
 
 She put one hand over her eyes, as if to shut out 
 the firelight. Grey sat forward and, resting his el- 
 bows on his knees, held his chin tightly between the 
 palms of his hands. It was some moments before the 
 girl spoke. When she did her voice sounded metallic 
 and tired. 
 
 "Yes," she said at last. "I was on the stage once. 
 When I first came to New York I went to a dramatic 
 school, more for amusement than anything else. 
 Then one day my uncle, who had always supported 
 me, told me that he had lost a lot of money, and the 
 remittances must stop, and that I must go back to the 
 little town where he lived, or look out for myself. 
 Well, I would rather have died than go back, and so 
 I got an engagement with a very bad company. It was 
 a road company we never played near New York. 
 We went to pieces in Duluth, and had to beat and 
 beg our way back. It was not a nice experience." 
 
 "And then?" asked the Junior Partner. 
 
 "Then ? Oh, then I got letters from my uncle, who 
 still had some business connections in New York 
 and I worked in two or three offices, and and finally 
 334
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 I came here. I didn't tell Mr. Wiley anything about 
 my theatrical experience when he engaged me." 
 
 "Why?" interrupted Grey. 
 
 "Why? You know the reputation of this office 
 every girl that comes here is supposed to vouch for 
 both her great-grandmothers. To get in here is sup- 
 posed to be a sort of a decoration in my world." 
 
 "But you are not happy here. Whenever I see you 
 at your desk you always seem to be dreaming about 
 something. Why, even to-night you see how late you 
 are with your work; and you know it is the same 
 nearly every night, don't you ?" 
 
 She took her hand from before her face and 
 nodded gravely into the grave eyes of the young 
 man. "Yes," she said, "I know. It does seem as if 
 I were always late." 
 
 "You'll pardon me, Miss Lorelle," Grey went on; 
 "but it seems to me that your temperament is essen- 
 tially suited to the life of an actress, and not to your 
 present work. Your voice, your face, your figure, are 
 all assets, if you will allow me to say so, which I 
 think are lost in an office such as this. You have alto- 
 gether too much imagination a clerk should be a 
 335
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 machine. I am going to ask you a plain question. Why 
 remain a bad clerk at fifteen dollars a week, when 
 you might be a good actress at many times that sum ? 
 This life is well enough for these other girls here; 
 but not for you not for you." 
 
 The girl slowly clasped her hands behind her head 
 and looked wide eyed at the Junior Partner. "I sup- 
 pose it all means," she whispered, "that I must go 
 that this is really a polite way of telling me that you 
 don't want me any longer." 
 
 The young man rose and for a moment stood with 
 his back to her, resting his hands on the mantel 
 shelf over the fire. He was a very young man. "Be- 
 lieve me, Miss Lorelle," he said, turning to her again. 
 "I am speaking for your best interests as well as our 
 own. I'm sure I could get you an engagement. I know 
 at least one manager who would be only too glad to 
 oblige me. I want to be fair to you, Miss Lorelle; in- 
 deed I do. It has always been a tradition of this firm 
 to treat its people with every consideration with 
 every kindness that was possible." 
 
 For a brief moment she pressed her hand slowly 
 against her eyes, and then took it quickly away 
 336
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 again, and slid out of the deep chair. "Oh, I 
 know," she said, standing. "You are kind very 
 kind to your people you even mean to be kind to 
 me. Good-night." 
 
 The Junior Partner held out his hand. "You 
 won't be leaving us for some days, I hope." 
 
 Miss Lorelle brushed the tips of her fingers across 
 his open palm. 
 
 "Yes, to-night. Miss Crawford can do my work. 
 I'll explain everything to her in a letter. I wouldn't 
 care to see the girls again." 
 
 "And you won't let me write to this manager?" 
 
 The girl had regained her habitual poise, and, 
 turning at the doorway, smiled back at him, and 
 shook her head. "I'm afraid you're a little too young 
 and too good looking and much too rich to start a 
 girl on the stage that is, for the girl's good. Good- 
 night and good-by to you, Mr. Grey." 
 
 The door closed sharply behind her, and the 
 Junior Partner was left alone to finish his letters. 
 Half an hour later when he passed through the big 
 office room he saw her still working. He turned and 
 gravely bowed in her direction; but the only answer 
 337
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 was the scratching of the girl's pen over the unbal- 
 anced journal. 
 
 The morning after the leave taking of Miss Lorelle 
 six of the seven young women who worked in the 
 large room arrived promptly at nine o'clock, and 
 were proceeding with much deliberation to remove 
 their hats and wraps, when they were suddenly 
 startled by a cry of consternation from the direction 
 of Miss Crawford's desk. The girls promptly gath- 
 ered about their fellow-clerk and gazed anxiously 
 on the letter which she held in her hand, and which 
 without doubt had been the cause of the excitement. 
 With much emphasis Miss Crawford read the docu- 
 ment aloud to her fellow- workers. It was a very 
 simple letter, saying good-by to six young women 
 whom during working hours Miss Lorelle had known 
 rather intimately, and of whom in her own way she 
 was very fond. When the signature of the letter had 
 been read with proper emphasis, the five young 
 women who had been standing about Miss Craw- 
 ford's desk gazed at each other with wide-eyed 
 wonder. The idea of an employee leaving the firm of 
 338
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 Wiley, Grey & Co. overnight was without prece- 
 dent, and almost criminal in its suddenness. 
 
 Anna Wilson, a black-eyed girl in short dresses, 
 who was really a girl office boy, and much the 
 youngest of the group, made slight effort to control 
 her feelings, and, burying her head in her arms on 
 Miss Crawford's desk, burst into violent weeping. 
 It was the first break she had ever experienced in 
 an official family, and besides Miss Lorelle had 
 always treated her with great kindness and just as 
 if she were not a very young girl but a woman like 
 the rest of them. Perhaps it was shock or perhaps 
 it was that the other girl clerks shared the feeling of 
 Miss Wilson, weeping on the desk, and had a better 
 control over the lumps that were rising and falling 
 in their throats; but in any case there were many 
 moments of silence that followed the reading of the 
 letter. Each of these girls knew that Miss Lorelle 
 was not a good clerk, each of them knew also that 
 she individually had helped her constantly with 
 her work, and had done her best to shield her de- 
 ficiencies from the ever-watchful eyes of the Jun- 
 ior Partner. And yet at that moment they would 
 339
 
 THE, STAGE DOOR 
 
 have given up many hours of their own time to have 
 seen her back at her old desk. Perhaps it was the 
 thoughtfulness of the girl who had left them that in- 
 spired these thoughts, or perhaps it was her flower- 
 like beauty, or perhaps it was the unspoken thought 
 that she was just a little different from themselves of 
 a slightly different mould and of just a trifle finer clay. 
 Be that as it may, any further discussion of the 
 situation was rendered impossible by the appear- 
 ance of the Junior Partner. For a moment he stopped 
 at the desk of Miss Crawford and arranged for a fair 
 division of Miss Lorelle's work until her successor 
 should have been selected. With these slight changes, 
 the work of the office, at least outwardly, continued 
 on its even way. 
 
 It is probable that had Miss Lorelle returned to 
 the daily grind of desk work in another quarter of 
 the city, or had she pursued some equally unosten- 
 tatious calling, the record of her recent business life 
 would have fast faded into a pleasant memory. But 
 Miss Lorelle, after some consideration, returned to the 
 stage, not so much on account of the advice of her 
 340
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 late employer, as because it seemed to be the course 
 that offered the least resistance. With her knowledge 
 of the possibilities of the profession, she turned to the 
 agencies, and frequented them with such persistency 
 that in little more than a week she was on her way to 
 Denver to fill a minor position in a summer stock 
 company. For two months she played twice a day 
 and rehearsed and the best part of the remainder of 
 each twenty-four hours worked on her wardrobe. It 
 was very hard work, but at least it taught her ease 
 and the rudiments of acting. 
 
 Late in August, when a Chicago manager "dis- 
 covered" her, he found her a little pale and tired 
 quite tired enough to abandon any immediate hope 
 she may have had of becoming a dramatic star. He 
 wanted her for a small part in a musical comedy 
 that is, if she could sing and dance and as she 
 could do a little of both, she was promptly engaged. 
 In a few weeks she was at work again; but after her 
 experience with the stock company it seemed more 
 like play. With her one song, which happened to be 
 a good song, she attained a certain amount of 
 success. 
 
 341
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 But it was, after all, her beauty that scored and 
 that gave her a probably unwarranted local reputa- 
 tion. Paragraphs occasionally appeared about her in 
 the Chicago newspapers, and in her really gorgeous 
 stage dresses and her imitation pearls she was con- 
 stantly in demand for "art studies" by the local 
 photographers. In time these pictures appeared in 
 the magazines, and were usually accompanied by 
 rather startling tales of the past and present of this 
 new and extremely beautiful addition to the Ameri- 
 can stage. She had confidingly placed herself in the 
 hands of her press agent and he had supplied her 
 lavishly with an imaginary private electric brougham, 
 a French touring car, and jewels that would make 
 a rajah fairly wince with envy. 
 
 During the winter months these pictures and the 
 wonder tales of the new spendthrift beauty reached 
 New York and eventually found their way into the 
 big room of Wiley, Grey & Co., where they were 
 welcomed with sighs of delight and without an iota 
 of doubt as to their absolute truthfulness. Notwith- 
 standing the somewhat decollete appearance of Miss 
 Lorelle in the photographic studies, she became at 
 342
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 once the patron saint of the office where she had so 
 recently been a humble employe. Every desk con- 
 tained one or more of her pictures, and every morsel 
 of news as to her last escapade was read aloud to 
 wide-eyed wonderment. Her past life in the big room 
 was gone over with wonderful minuteness, and her 
 every simple kindness was developed into a deed of 
 splendid heroism. And through all this spirit of loy- 
 alty and admiration there was no word nor thought of 
 envy. One of their own had one night passed out of 
 their workaday, monotonous life and had suddenly 
 appeared as a brilliant light in a world of which these 
 girls could only read and of which they could really 
 know but little. In the natural course of events it was 
 quite sure that some day she must return to New 
 York, and the seven young women waited patiently 
 for the day. 
 
 This day came early in June. It was the first of 
 the summer musical productions, and the New York 
 first-nighters awaited the event with no unusual dis- 
 play of interest. Miss Lorelle had been featured in the 
 newspapers to the exact limit that the woman star and 
 the comedian would permit, and it must be said that 
 343
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 the audience, when it saw her, liked this new girl from 
 the West. They liked her almost perfect beauty, and 
 they liked the way she moved about the stage, and 
 a certain conviction with which she read her lines, 
 and, above all else, the unusual intelligence which she 
 used in singing her one song. It was very far from an 
 ovation; but her reception was out of all proportion 
 to the part she played, and the critics, who like the 
 unusual, said as much in their reviews the morning 
 following. With one accord they dismissed the light 
 voice with a few words, and stopped to praise at 
 some length the beauty and the resources of this 
 young girl who had found flowers where the authors 
 had planted only weeds. 
 
 It is probable that at no one place in New York 
 were these notices so eagerly read, or so much discussed, 
 as in the big room of Wiley, Grey & Co. The seven 
 girls laughed and rejoiced over them, perhaps even 
 cried a little over them, and mentally agreed never 
 to buy one paper again because it fell far below the 
 others in praising their favorite. Individually they 
 had each sent her a telegram, and collectively they 
 were represented by a large bunch of roses, the cost 
 344
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 of which was out of all proportion to their weekly 
 salaries. Exactly how she was to acknowledge these 
 tokens of regard was a matter of no little moment, 
 and was as frequently and vivaciously discussed the 
 day following the debut as were the notices in the 
 morning newspapers. Some believed that she would 
 return their thoughtfulness in kind, telegram for tele- 
 gram and flower for flower, while others hoped for 
 nothing more than one polite note of thanks that 
 would cover all cases. 
 
 The matter was decided late in the afternoon, 
 when Miss Lorelle herself appeared in the doorway 
 of the big room. For a brief moment the seven young 
 women sat staring open-eyed at this wonderful vision 
 of loveliness laughing and walking toward them with 
 outstretched hands, and then, wholly forgetting that 
 the lady in the salmon-pink cloth dress was their 
 patron saint, they ran to her and threw their arms 
 about her and remembered only that she was their 
 old friend Maggie Lorelle. To a chorus of many 
 questions and hysterical laughter she was half 
 dragged, half carried, to the nearest desk, where they 
 put her down in a chair, and then all gathered about, 
 345
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 as closely as they conveniently could. Some sat on 
 the desk, and others sat on the floor, and still others 
 had to content themselves with an outer fringe of 
 chairs. For a few moments there was silence, while 
 Miss Lorelle beamed joyously at the seven young 
 women, and the eyes of the seven young women 
 strayed from the close-fitting salmon-pink coat to the 
 creaseless skirt, the patent leather ties, the black silk 
 stockings, the glistening white kid gloves, and the 
 black picture hat with the great bow of pink velvet. 
 
 Miss Cregar, who was usually regarded as the 
 dean of the clerks, was the first to break these mo- 
 ments of silent adulation. "Maggie," she said, "I 
 want you to know Miss Bowles she's the girl that 
 took your place when you left." 
 
 A young girl with very red cheeks sitting on the 
 floor blushed violently, although in the confusion 
 she had embraced Miss Lorelle as enthusiastically as 
 the others. 
 
 Miss Lorelle smiled cheerfully and took the girl's 
 
 outstretched hand in both of hers. "I have to thank 
 
 you for a telegram, and for your share in the roses. 
 
 That was the best part of last night, girls the tele- 
 
 346
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 grams and your flowers." There was a very slight 
 quaver in the voice of the speaker. "You see, it 
 showed me how you all remembered me, and that 
 you had probably been interested in what I was 
 doing." 
 
 "Oh, we followed you all right," said Anna Wilson 
 from her perch on the top of the desk. "We saw all 
 your pictures in the papers and the magazines, and 
 we read all they said about you, and the automobiles 
 and the diamonds you got. Did you come down here 
 in your automobile?" 
 
 Miss Lorelle looked up suddenly into the eyes of 
 the speaker and then into those of the little group 
 gathered about her. The stories of the diamonds and 
 the automobiles had been regarded so differently by 
 different people. 
 
 "No," said the actress, smiling again, "I didn't 
 come in my automobile, because, you see, I haven't 
 got one." 
 
 "Haven't got one!" they echoed in chorus. 
 
 "Why, I saw a picture of you," Miss Wilson 
 argued, "and you were stepping into your private 
 electric hansom with two men on the box. It was in 
 347
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 front of a grand house with a garden as big as a 
 public park." 
 
 "No, I haven't got a single automobile, nor even 
 one little diamond." 
 
 Keen disappointment was clearly written on the 
 faces about her. 
 
 "You see, all those stories were published just to 
 advertise the show I was with." 
 
 "And the beautiful flat in Chicago?" asked Miss 
 Wilson. 
 
 Miss Lorelle shook her head, and fairly laughed 
 aloud. "Just a dream of the press agent. When he 
 wrote that story, I was living in a boarding-house, 
 trying to save enough money to buy a few good 
 clothes and some imitation pearls." 
 
 "And the man that wrote that knew it all the 
 time?" asked a dismayed voice from the fringe of 
 chairs. 
 
 "All the time," said Miss Lorelle. 
 
 "And you have to ride all rigged up like a horse 
 in the street cars and the 'L'?" Miss Wilson asked 
 almost tearfully. 
 
 "Well, not always, Anna, dear, because, you see, 
 348
 
 I'm not very often rigged up like a horse. It's only 
 when I make a formal call like this that I wear my 
 good clothes. Besides 
 
 "I saw a picture of you," interrupted Miss Wilson, 
 "in a sable coat that dragged on the ground. Don't 
 tell us you don't own that either." 
 
 "I'm afraid not," and the actress smiled and shook 
 her head. "We borrowed that from a furrier. Isn't it 
 awful that it's not my own?" 
 
 "And the all-lace dress," questioned Miss Cregar 
 dubiously, "where you are sitting by the fireplace in 
 your own parlor serving tea ?" 
 
 "Oh, that's really mine. I saved for four months 
 to get that dress. You see, that's for when I'm asked 
 out to supper at night. It's fine I'll show it to you 
 some time." 
 
 The faces of the circle brightened considerably. 
 
 "But don't you always go out to supper after the 
 play?" came from the outlying chairs. 
 
 "No. I'm not always asked that is, by people I 
 want to go out with and then, you see, in the pro- 
 fession you've got to rest a lot. You can't very well 
 go out every night and do your work." 
 349
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Those silk stockings you've got on now," sug- 
 gested Miss Bowles from her vantage point on the 
 floor, "are awful thin." 
 
 Miss Lorelle glanced down at the transparent silk 
 and smiled. "They are thin, aren't they ? They're old 
 ones I used to wear on the stage." 
 
 Miss Bowles continued. "Do you have to buy 
 your own stockings?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Miss Lorelle "my own 
 stockings and shoes and gloves and oh, so many 
 things! It's terribly expensive. I don't really know 
 how I'm going to pay my board and the laundry bill 
 sometimes. Managers are not very generous." 
 
 " But don't you get a big salary ? " 
 
 "Pretty big; but then, you see, I have to keep up 
 a show for it. And when my salary goes up, if it ever 
 does, my position will get better, too, and that means 
 that I must use cabs and keep a maid and live in a 
 hotel." 
 
 " Do you live in a hotel now ? " asked the wide-eyed 
 Miss Wilson. 
 
 "Indeed I don't," said the actress. "I'm back in 
 my old room at Miss Burns's, where I lived when I 
 350
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 was working here. It's fine to be back again. You re- 
 member Miss Burns she still mothers all the board- 
 ers, and the old place is as clean and sweet as it used 
 to be. Just wait until you go on the road, Anna, 
 and live in railroad trains and cheap, stuffy hotels, 
 and you'll be glad to be back in your old home on 
 West Tenth Street, too." 
 
 Miss Lorelle glanced at the clock, and rose from 
 her chair. "It's six o'clock, girls," said she, "and 
 you must be getting home. I suppose you still take 
 the six-twenty-six to Rahway, Vera?" 
 
 Miss Vera Dobson blushingly admitted that she 
 was still of the great army of commuters. "I know 
 it's a little far," she stammered. 
 
 Miss Lorelle put her arms about the girl and kissed 
 her affectionately on the cheek. "I know it is, Vera," 
 she said; "but it's pretty good when you get there 
 and, after all, it's home, isn't it?" 
 
 The girls were moving slowly toward the closets 
 that held their hats and coats. "Oh, Miss Bowles," 
 Miss Lorelle called, "do you have my old desk? I'd 
 so like to see it again." The two girls, arm in arm, 
 moved down the room until they came to the desk 
 351
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 where Miss Lorelle had spent so many hours. In a 
 few moments they were joined by the others. 
 
 "Must look pretty natural," suggested Miss 
 Cregar "the books open and the work only half 
 done. You were certainly a pretty bad clerk, Maggie." 
 
 Miss Lorelle picked up some of the invoices on the 
 desk and compared them with their numbers in the 
 book. "The same old thing, isn't it?" she said. 
 
 "Just the same there's never any change here. 
 Perhaps you'd like to finish them up for Miss 
 Bowles?" 
 
 "Oh, indeed I would," said Miss Lorelle. "In- 
 deed, indeed I would. It would be so like old times. 
 I shouldn't make any mistakes, I promise you." 
 
 "It's awfully nice of you," stammered Miss 
 Bowles; "but really " 
 
 "Please let me just as a favor," and Miss Lo- 
 relle held out both her hands. "Good-night, Miss 
 Bowles, and good-night to all of you, girls. I'll stay till 
 Wilson closes up. I want to see him. Old Wilson is still 
 here, isn't he ? " 
 
 "Yes, he's here all right," said Miss Cregar; "but 
 it don't seem just right to leave you alone, Maggie." 
 352
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 "You always used to leave me alone you know 
 you did. Run along now, all of you, please." 
 
 One by one the seven girls filed before her and 
 wished her good-night, and each one clasped the 
 salmon-pink dress in a fond embrace. When Miss 
 Lorelle was quite alone she sat down in her old chair 
 and turned on the single electric globe above the 
 desk. The shaded light fell full on the books which 
 she had once known so very well. The life of the last 
 year, with all its big troubles and petty successes 
 was forgotten for the moment, and she was back 
 again in the monotonous, happy past of figures and 
 invoices and ledgers. She dipped the pen in the ink 
 and then dropped it back on the desk, just as she 
 used to do, and with her chin resting on her hand 
 she turned toward the open window with its box of 
 fragrant heliotrope and to the quiet little garden of 
 the rectory beyond. She could not have told how long 
 she sat there; but when she heard the door open which 
 led from the private office of the Junior Partner, she 
 hurriedly picked up the pen and began copying the 
 numbers of the invoices in the book before her. 
 
 In the dim light Gre^ did not recognize her, and, 
 353
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 thinking it was one of the clerks, called to her to 
 come into his office. 
 
 When he saw Miss Lorelle in the salmon-pink 
 dress standing at the doorway, he hurriedly rose 
 from his desk and received her with much effusion. 
 He had seen her the night before at the Casino, and 
 he, too, had read the stories of the automobiles and 
 the diamonds and the sable coat, and being a young 
 man, apt in the belief of his own world, had placed 
 his own construction upon them. 
 
 The girl smiled at the excessive courtesy, and for 
 a brief moment allowed her hand to rest in his. A 
 year before she had left the little room as a discharged 
 employee; now they met on terms of a certain equality 
 at least of mutual independence. 
 
 "This is indeed an honor," said the Junior 
 Partner. 
 
 "I came to see the girls," Miss Lorelle replied, 
 glancing at the mass of papers on the desk. "And 
 you you are still working overtime ? " She stood in 
 the centre of the room, looking about her at the por- 
 traits and at the other things which had once been 
 so familiar to her. 
 
 354
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 "Do sit down," urged Grey, "and tell me all 
 about yourself." 
 
 Miss Lorelle took the chair in front of the Junior 
 Partner's desk and began slowly pulling on her 
 gloves. 
 
 Her late employer leaned against the desk and 
 looked down into the slanting eyes and the oval face 
 shadowed by the big black picture hat. 
 
 In that one glance he noted how the change in her 
 life had already written itself in the girl's face he 
 saw the little lines and the faint shadows. There was 
 an independence too in her manner and an assurance 
 in her speech which he had never known before. In 
 the year past she had acquired a new language. 
 
 "It's fine to see you again," he said enthusiasti- 
 cally. "I was at the theatre last night, and was really 
 proud of you. You know I feel, in a way, responsible 
 for your success." 
 
 She slowly turned her eyes toward him and then 
 back to the desk. "That that's what you said to 
 the girl in mauve who sat next to you in the corner 
 of the stage box, wasn't it I mean at the time I took 
 the first call after my song?" 
 355
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 "Why, yes. I think I did say something of the 
 kind. She really admired you greatly insisted on 
 asking you to supper with us after the show and all 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 "The lady in mauve must be a very independent 
 young person. And what did you insist on ?" 
 
 "I? Oh I was sure that you would have an en- 
 gagement. I supposed you would be celebrating your 
 success at Rector's; in fact, I dropped in there late 
 in the hope of seeing you; but you weren't there, 
 were you?" 
 
 "No, I wasn't there nobody happened to ask 
 me to supper last night; so I went alone to Mr. 
 Mink's. Perhaps you don't know Mr. Mink's it's 
 a rather clean little place over on Sixth avenue 
 and you sit on a high stool, and the food is piled all 
 around you on glass-covered stands." 
 
 "Really?" said the Junior Partner. He looked 
 down curiously at the girl, who had taken up his pen 
 and was beating a slow tattoo with it on the desk 
 blotter. "One often gets such wrong ideas," he 
 added. "I thought, of course, that you would be 
 with your friends." 
 
 356
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 "I'm afraid I have no friends in New York except 
 the girls in the office here, and their interest appeared 
 to fade a bit when they heard that my automobile 
 and my jewels were only pipe dreams of the press 
 agent. They seemed glad enough to go home at six 
 o'clock when I told them I still used the street cars. 
 But they're all right after all, it's pretty good to have 
 a home to go to." 
 
 "But I can't imagine all those girls' homes are so 
 attractive as that," interrupted the Junior Partner. 
 
 "No, you can't imagine and they can't imagine 
 what the same four walls and the same faces and the 
 same little welcome means every evening at the same 
 hour. I know it's monotonous enough, all right; but 
 I'll tell you what it stands for to a girl it stands for 
 a kind of protection. If a wise guy of an hotel clerk 
 with a grin on his face gave you a key to a new home 
 every night, or at most once a week, that same monot- 
 ony would get to seem pretty good." The girl tossed 
 the pen on the desk and looked squarely into the 
 face of the Junior Partner. 
 
 "Do you know the best hour of the day to me 
 now?" 
 
 357
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 Grey shook his head, and slowly folded his arms. 
 
 "I'll tell you it's six o'clock when the whistles 
 blow; because wherever I am, whatever city or any 
 old one-night stand I happen to be in, I know that 
 all over the town there are hundreds of men and 
 women shutting down their desks and putting on 
 their hats and going home home. When they're at 
 work, I'm either in a room in a raw hotel or walking 
 the main street and being pointed out as one of 'the 
 troupe ' ; and when night comes around I am at work 
 with paint on my face trying to amuse these same 
 people. And I'll tell you, Mr. Grey, even if a girl 
 does succeed in this business, these same hours go 
 for the woman star as well as for the girl in the back 
 row; and the next time you see your lady friend in 
 the mauve dress you might tell her all this, too. It 
 will take longer to say than that you put me in the 
 business; but it's just as true, and it will make con- 
 versation." 
 
 Miss Lorelle rose from her seat at the desk, and, 
 crossing the room, stopped in front of the looking- 
 glass over the fireplace and carefully adjusted her 
 hat. Reflected in the mirror, she saw the good-looking 
 358
 
 THE ROAD TO GLORY 
 
 features of Grey smiling quizzically at her from 
 across the room. 
 
 "And oh, Mr. Grey," she said, patting her hair at 
 the temples and smiling at the reflection in the glass, 
 "do thank the lady in mauve for wanting me to 
 come to supper. It does seem queer that the man 
 who wouldn't ask me was the same one that lifted 
 me out of the clerking game and that put me in the 
 show business." She turned and held out her hand 
 to him. "Good-by, Mr. Grey I'm going outside to 
 wait for Wilson. I want to see him when he makes 
 his round." 
 
 The Junior Partner took her hand in both of 
 his. "I'm sorry," he said "very, very sorry if I 
 made a mistake. I'm sure you will admit that I 
 meant well." 
 
 "Meant well? Why, of course, you meant well!" 
 With her free hand the girl carefully brushed a speck 
 from the lapel of the coat of the Junior Partner. "But 
 say, honest for fair, don't you find that most of the 
 trouble in this world comes from the people who 
 mean well I mean the self-appointed understudies 
 for the general manager of the universe? And now 
 359
 
 THE STAGE DOOR 
 
 if you'll kindly let me have that hand back, which I 
 need in my business, I'll say good-by." 
 
 And with these words the pale, smiling face and 
 the salmon-pink dress of Miss Lorelle passed forever 
 out of the social life of the Junior Partner. 
 
 360
 
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