"About three months, if you must know," replied Martha, bristling a little at his inquisition.

"Have you seen him often?"

"To-day was the first time."

"He has written to you?"

"Yes."

"Sent you presents, I suppose?"

"A few pieces of jewelry. Every week he has sent me an envelope. Inside, with a blank piece of paper, was a hundred-dollar bill. I never knew until to-day who sent them."

"What have you done with these things?"

"I handed them all back to him, in this room, half an hour ago. I told him I could accept nothing from him, but finally I agreed to go to dinner with him to-night. He's probably waiting out front now, in his car."

Clayton rose to his feet nervously and paced the floor.

"What else did he say?" he inquired.

"He was very nice and respectful. He offered to speak to Mr. Weldon, the manager, and get me a new part--perhaps the leading part--in his new production."

"So that's his little game, is it?" said Clayton, still more annoyed.

"Money and jewels returned, his next bribe is an engagement. How do you know you could play the part?"

"I might succeed," pouted Martha. "And even a star who tries and fails, can never forget that she did star--once."

"And so your success means more to you than anything else that life can offer?"

Martha's eyes were still fired by the light of her ambition. "Yes," she said.

"If you please, Miss," interrupted Lizzie, entering at that moment, "Mr.

Gordon is outside in his car, and wants to know if you will be ready soon."

"Tell him--" began Martha. Then she hesitated, looking doubtfully at Clayton, who came close to her as though awaiting her decision on a momentous matter.

"Martha," he asked, "are you still determined to keep this dinner engagement with Gordon?"

"Why not?" Martha seemed to take a keen delight in arousing his displeasure. "There's no harm in it, and Mr. Gordon has been very kind to me."

"As he has been to the others--before you," said Clayton, bitterly, almost savagely.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. If I can't convince you without blackguarding him, I'll let you go. I only ask you to trust me, and believe that I am doing my best--for you." Clayton paused doubtfully. "If you hate to eat dinner alone," he added suddenly, as an afterthought, "so do I. Martha, come with me."

"But I promised Mr. Gordon. He's waiting."

"But remember, you have a contract with me."

"Yes," replied Martha, half angrily. "With a friend. Not a jailer.

Good-night."

Martha started toward the door, but Clayton raised his hand and she hesitated, as he blocked the way.

"Well?" she demanded defiantly.

"You can choose between him and me," declared Clayton, hotly. "But you've got to choose. If you go with him, breaking your contract, I wash my hands of the whole business. Now, choose."

Martha met his gaze squarely, half angrily, half contemptuously. Then she turned to the waiting maid.

"Lizzie," she said, clearly and distinctly, "ask Mr. Gordon--" Yet, even as she spoke her voice faltered, she looked at Clayton, and added, dropping her eyes, in an almost inaudible undertone: "--_to excuse me_."

Clayton took her arm eagerly, and she looked up again into his face.

"You brute," she said, but she laughed when she said it.

CHAPTER X

THE UNDERGROUND WIRES

The sign on the door of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building bore the legend, in plain black letters:

VICTOR WELDON

Theatrical Manager

Suite 1239 was really two small rooms, an outer and an inner office. The outer office, overlooking busy Broadway, which seethed and simmered its hurrying crowds far below, was divided into two parts by a railing. On one side two long benches served as havens of rest for weary stage-folk in search of engagements. Ever and anon one, two, or even three players, perhaps chorus girls, perhaps actors, perhaps character women, would enter timidly, look around the office as though expecting the imperial Jove to hurl thunderbolts at them for their presumption in thus invading the sacred precincts, and then tremblingly ask the red-haired stenographer on the other side of the rail:

"Is Mr. Weldon engaging any one?"

And the red-haired stenographer, invariably without looking up from her machine, would reply:

"Nothing doing to-day."

Sometimes this routine would vary a trifle, in case Mr. Weldon, for reasons of his own, wished to have his office appear like a busy mart.

Then the stenographer would say:

"Mr. Weldon is very busy now, but if you want to wait, perhaps you can see him."

This left-handed invitation, containing only the slightest ray of hope that perhaps the great manager would engage some one for something, was invariably pounced upon eagerly, for actors undergoing that sad daily routine known as "making the rounds," knew to their sorrow that invitations even to sit down and wait were few and far between. The "Call to-morrow" slogan was the more usual excuse in getting rid of applicants. In a profession as overcrowded as the theatrical business there are thirty applicants for every possible position, but still the unsuccessful ones keep on "making the rounds" on the chance that sooner or later they will be engaged.

Mr. Weldon's private reasons for wishing his outer office to be filled at certain times possibly had something to do with the fact that on these occasions certain smartly dressed, prosperous men called on business and were instantly admitted to the inner office. Then the stenographer, having had her cues, would drop some casual remark about "The backer of the new show," whereupon the professionals would become more alert at the prospect of "Something doing." Of course, conversely, the mysterious "backers" were impressed by the stage setting of an outer office of players looking for engagements from the great Mr. Weldon.