The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 19, 1903, Page 3

THE SUNDAY CALL. —~ 7] N | and frowned, each g visible in the stared. flushe of his emot r the stage all the cheek 1 ¢ turn. “if that t ov ard,” he ob- t about the t o' yours, any- face was sely Lt every urned to see what might be go- card your conversation a few with the man you've got be- me answered as quietly This was an exa fon of end- Newc but it had the eff driver wrigg ct he i 1 on his seat and nion as if de- g0t out of the dificulty d of his”" said the other you heard a rd that. it is of yours, thought I'm quickl must have t affair ything you At's 3 for the jme, with a pronounced Yan- kee accent. “And see here, I haven't got much time to spare for you. How long re you going to take about getting wn “Do you want me to call the police and mmend them to pack you off to Bed- ded the man by the driver. as you like about that,” me, through nose, “after wu've come down off your perch.” Mrs. Peter Cariton had driven away, the pretty girls had gone, and the crowd that was left threw itself heart and soul into the scene. Nobody had inter- fered as yet, for it appeared to all that der the badinage there was more met the eve or ear. now, you clear out of this,” ad- vised the driver's companion, “or you'll something you won't like.” 2 go when you've got down.” The man, who had kept his temper, and kept his volce under control as well, grew suddenly reckless. It was twenty minutes past eleven, and he was anxious to be rid of this persistent Paul Pry, whose inter- ference was likely to prove inconvenient. had been employed to do a certain g, and though his bargain with cabby was far from complete, he had found the man amenable to reason, and was morally sure he would be open to further, more dazzling offers. Already he had paid £5 down for the mere privilege of sitting on the box er sc seat of Mi Gray's cab, the far suspecting nothing more se- love-sick romance; and there r instructions which must be He leaned across the cabman and snatched the whip from fits socket. Now!" he exclaimed, “will you stop this ken game?” He glared down at the young man on the pavement, chuckling over the secret of his own great strength—the strength by which®he partly got his living. Hope Newcome gave him back stare for stare. With a quick movement he caught the threatening whip In the middle a few inches higher up than the spot where the other gr ed it. The man on the box gave a wrench. Newcome twisted the and the whip broke off short » a snap. was at this instant that Winifred appeared In the doorway. snap and the breaking whip was the girl's ears. She did not t to make of the thing she saw, was clear that something ex- was happening—something in cab and cabman were Inti- concerned. . saw was a strange, silent truggle between a man on the box seat beside the driver and a man below, who had pressed himself close to the wheel. man she had seen before. It was “bronze statue” she had wondered out nd pitied and admired all in a eath as she went into the theater a few rs ago—or was it years?—ago. L saw the man on the seat raise the broken stock of the whip as If to strike £he saw the other seize his arm and she saw the struggle that followed; the big fellow on the box, whose right arm was held fast, getting In one flerce, sudden blow with his clenched fist, but no more. The man on the pavement dodged his head like a practiced boxer and the vic- fous blow glanced along his forehead Winifred’s lips had parted to cry out, “What has happened?” and the words were not uttered. Nobody spoke, but the crowd of idlers and loafers surged for- ward toward the combatants. CHAPTER VI THE GRANTING OF A WISH. The driver would have started his horse and got away if he could, but in the fraction of a second the tall, lithe fel- low on the pavement realized his inten- tion, snatched the reins and twisted them around his own wrist. Next in- ant the big man on the box gave a yelp of agony. The hand that clutched the whipstock dropped Mmply; the left was thrown out blindly again in a me- chanical attempt at retaliation that missed Its mark, and seeing his oppor- tunity, the “bronze statue’s” tactics changed. In a flash the hand that had grasped the other’s limp right arm sprang to his neck, and twisting in his coat col- lar, wrenched the stout figure from its high seat, bringing it in a heap to the ground. Then it was jerked up again, tottering end staggering, pale lips curs- 1 ou ehall pay for this—I'll have you up for assault!” the man sputtered, his face yellow-white. *“Confound you! “You've broken my arm.” “Have me up, by all means,” returned Newcome politely, though his breath was coming and going quickly. “If you don’t mind the circumstances getting out, I'm sure I don’t. I've nothing to conceal.” “What's up here?” demanded George Anderson’s voice, and, turning with a start, Winifred saw not only the man- &ger, but his friend, Lionel Macaire. “Oh, it's you, Mr. Newcome!” the actor “Have you been getting into & Hope Newcome faced him frankly. If he had glanced at the millfonaire instead he would have seen a thing which Wini- fred saw—or thought that she saw—with surprise and bewilderment. Lionel Macaire’s eyes were net even for her. They had darted straight as a hawk darts upon its prey to the face of the man whom Newcome had so forcibly un- scated. The look was brief as a light- ning flash, but full of concentrated pas- sion Then the eyes traveled to the man with the wide-brimmed hat, resting upon him for an instant with an extraordinary, an unreadable expression. And both looks passed so quickly t a second later Winifred was hardly sure she had not magnified or altogether imagined their meaning. “lI think, Mr. Anderson, it won't amount to & ‘row,’” Hope Newcome an- swered, wiping a trickle of blood from his forehead, where a sledge-hammer fist had struck, aiming for his temple. “I merely objected, on principle, to persons getting a drive on other people's cabs, that's all.” The gent was a fr grum- bled the frightened , finging his crumb of explanation to Winifred Giay, employer. I guv 'im per- missior up beside me, not thinkin’ y would o, en blow it bloke did re interferin’. he ‘gent,’ as you 'call him, paid for T saw that—for it was ly done,” said Newcome. *And if 1 presyme to advise the lady who hired you I would suggest that she s for another driver to-morrow night.” Once the man who had stood nursing his broken arm looked At Mr. Macaire. In Lis bloodshot eyes was a question or un appeal, but it was unanswered. The lionaire stared through the great lumber- x form as if it had been of thinnest alir, discolored face expressionless now as a mask. With a mien of one ashaméd and de- feated, yet deflant still, the big fellow went lumbering off, muttering to himself as he walked. And with him the crowd friendship. of onlookers began melting away. The fun was over for them, though it had been prime while it lasted. They had seen what they came for, and a good deal more besides. Of the principal actors in the scene only Winifred looked after the departing one, noting with a glance of shuddering fascination the bull neck and the formidable though slouching should- ers. Then her eyes came back to fhe “bronze statue.” “Thank you for your advice,” she said, quite simpl; “J shall take it. And thank vou for what you have done—though I scarcely understand even now what it was.” ““There is nothing to thank me for,” an- swered Hope Newcome. *“But—may I call you another cab?"” “It Is not necessary to trouble you fur- ther,” sald Mr. Macaire, speaking for the irst time since his appearance. “Mr. An- derson and T will see that Miss Gray is taken care of."” To save her life Winifred could not itelp looking straight into Hope Newcome's eyves. Perhaps she was not wholly re- sponsible for the message they conveyed, but to him they seemed to say: “I don't want them to do anything for me. I want you to do 1t.” Accepting the message, his hat in his hand, the young pauper replied to the millionaire like an equal, “I assure you it is no trouble, but a pleasure. If the lady will allow me I should like to get her a cab.” Near by a footman was touching his tall hat. Mr. Macaire's carriage had ar- rived. o¢'‘Come along, Anderson,” he sald, shrugging his shoulders. Both men bowed low to Winifred; Anderson nodded to Newcome, Macaire gave him another cu- riously contemplative look, and then the two were shut up by the footman In the millionaire’s carriage. “Ain’t you goin’ to have me, miss whined the driver. ‘‘None of this busi- ness ain't my fault. “You can send in your bill to-morrow morning, and I'll pay you what is due,” sald Winifred. “But— 1T shan't want you again. I'm afrald I can't trust you after this.” Mumbling, he drove away, the five pounds he had earned so eastly partially consoling him for the business_he had lost. Not far away was the corner of the street crossed by a wider thoroughfare; and there cabs plled for hire. As the vehicle just discharged vanished In one direction & wave of Hope Newcome's hand—he standing in the middle of the street—brought a hansom round the cor- ner and up to the stage door. “Do you mind it's not being a four- wheeled one?”" he asked. “No,” replied Winifred. “I like it bet- ter—for to-night; it's quicker. But won't you tell me, now the other cabman’s gone, v what he did that was wrong, how you happened to notice it at “l overheard that big fellow trying to Lribe him, and though I couldn’t catch riuch that they sald, it was easy after the first to put two and two together,” answered Newcome. “For some reason the man wanted to drive on your cab, and—well, T thought you wouldn't wish him to if you understood. So I suggest- € tha e should get off, and when he wouldn't I took him off, that's all"” “1 should think you did!” Winifred's mood was far enough from merriment, Lut she broke into a little laugh over his gulet way of explaining the thing that he had done—also at the expression of mingled bewilderment and alarm on the withered-apple face of her mald. She let Newcome help her into the han- som, but it was the mald who told the new cabman where to drive. Then, with # =mile and with a last murmur of thanks was gone out of his sight. I'd glve a good deat to know what that brute’s real object was,” the young man said to himself, as wistfully he watched the hansom drive round the corner and disappear. “Did he only want to find out where she lived, or was there some- thing more? Was he doing it on ‘his own,' or was there some one else behind him? Well, anyhow, whatever it was, it didn’t come off. And he'll give a job to a surgeon before be gets into any more mischief. I was in luck to have done it, out of training as I am; but I felt the emall bone of his arm snap—and serve him right.” Hope Newcome walked away, turning his face southward, for his lodgings were be- yond the bounds of polite civilization, on the wrong side of the river. As he crossed Waterloo bridge the moonhoney-yellow in & hyacinth eky—hung over the water, its broken reflection like a fallen cup of ggld that drifted down the river with the tide, The young man stood still and looked back with & strange, new ache in his heart, at the London that he had left, its buildings stately, almost repellantly eplendid, silhouetted against the sky in the moon-paled darkness. He was thrust out of that splendor, not wanted. He was poor and alone, and the mission on which he had come seemed as far from him in its accomplishment as the moon was from the black water. Yet the water was swift and it caught and held the moon's image. He was young, and poverty—even a knowledge of hunger unsatisfled—had not silenced the high song of his blood or chilled its warmth. He did not despair. And he thought he had met disappoint- ment to-night in seeking the first round of the ladder; still he had seen a face fair enough to brighten the darkness, and he had had his wish. He had asked of Fate that he might serve Winifred Gray; and he had served her. Though they never met again, she would not quite forget. ., . . . . . . The thought of home was like balm on a wound to Winifred that night. She and her mother had taken a small flat neur Bryanston Square, and when the hansom stopped before the door of Bryancourt mansions the girl looked up to the lighted windows as she might have looked for a star., Her mother knew the time when she ‘was to be expected back from the theater to the moment, and never missed hearing the roll of the cab wheels, the clatter of the horse's feet in stopping at the pave- ment. By the time that Winifred haif-way up the fthird and’ last flight stairs the door of the flat was open and the little mother smiling in the light that streamed out to gladden “Winnie's” eyes. To-night it seemed a bad omen to the girl that the drawing-room windows, with their red silk shades, should glow but faintly and the door be shut. The mald had the latchkey In the tiny black bag which contained her mistresses’ few bits of jewelry, and used it for almost the first time since the flat had been home to the young actress. CHAPTER VIL IN TWOS AND THREES. . Winifred ran quickly in, leaving her maid to fasten the door of the flat, and it was a great relief to see her mother's small, thin figure appear at the drawing- room door. “Winnie, darling, 1 didn’t know you'd come. I'm so sorry,” cried the voice that had always been to Wiulfred the sweet- est in the world. *I heard a cab, but it was like a jingling hansom. 1 was sure it wasn't yours."” This was explanation enough; but the girl's sensitive ears detected something unusual in the tone—a kind of deadness, as if all the joy notes had been struck out of it. & “I came in a hansom to-night.” If Win. ifred’s heart had not been heavy she would have added a curiosity-plquing word about her adventure, but (except for her knight-errant, whose dark face she had not been able to put out of her mind all the way home) the affair ap- peared pitifully trivial beside the other overwhelming occurrence of the evening. Of this she had meant to speak, telling her mother all that Macaire had said and all that she had sald in aznswer; but the change in the dear voice frightened her. First, before talking of herself, she must know what had been happening at home. She put her arm round the little wo- man’s frail shoulders and drew her into the drawing-room. ‘Are you fecling worse, dearest?” she asked, tenderly, her eyes on the face, which was of 8o pure and transparent a pallor that it often re- minded the girl of alabaster, through which light shone clearly. “Not quite so well as sometimes, per- haps, but nothing for you to worry about,” the answer came soothingly. “What do you think Is. in the chafing-dish for you to-night, pet? Only guess!” Winifred's eyes turned to the wide door- way which opened between the emall drawing-room and still smaller dining- room. There, on the table, stood the smart silver chafing-dish In which some dainty was always prepared by her moth- er's own hands for her home-coming. The one servant was sent to bed early, and it was Mrs. Gray's pride and pleasure to de- vise something which might tempt the ap- petite of the tired little actress after the theater. The lace-edged tray-cloth, spread with a few pretty plates and bits of glass and silver, looked oddly pathetic to Winifred to-night, and a sensation of choking con- tracted her throat. “I can't guess, and T can't eat, mothe! kin,” she sald, ‘‘untll you tell me what is wrong. . There 1s someathing, I know." “I—couldn’t you walt for all that until you've had your supper, dear?’ pleaded Mrs. Gray, “I've taken such pains with it. It's sweetbreads, done in a new way. And there’s a steaming hot cup of chocolate— for the night seemed so chilly.” Winifred shivered slightly, but not wit! cold. Lionel Macaire had made her drin! chocolate. She thaeught that she could never bear to touch it again, but still less could she grieve her mother. So she took off her hat and gloves and sat down at the table, trying to smile, praising the sweetbreads, and reluctantly sipping the chocolate, while the welght of presenti- ment was coldy heavy on her breast. The worst of this night was not over yet, something seemed to whisper in her ea She must at least make a pretense of e. ing now, if she would show appreciation of the little mother’s thought for her. By and by even that pretense would be im- possible. The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow, and a mist of tears dimmed her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She and her best loved one had been so happy, so merry, in this little place. Why need she feel that it was all going to end to-night? It was stupid to feel that—yet the impression would not pass. When she could make an end of the feast without seeming ungrateful she sprang up and pushed away her chair. Mrs. Gray had sat watching the girl with great love and a tireless, yearning admir- ation in her eyes as her frail body lent agalinst the cushions in a grandfather chair by the fireplace. Though October had not come vet, there was a glow of dying fire In the grate—just enough to give an excuse for drawing near It, and ‘Winifred knelt down on the rug, with her arms across her mother’s knees. “Now, what fs It, dear?” she asked, bravely. “I wish T needn’t tell you,” the elder woman answered, a quiver in her voice. “You and I have always borne every- thing together, haven't we? And so we always will. “Oh, darling, there've been troubles enough in your young life. I did hope they wers over. But heaven knows best.” ‘““Aren’t you going to tell me?” “Since 1 must—yes. It couldn’t be kept from you. Strange, isn't it. love, how troubles come so often in twos and threes, not singly?” Winifred looked up into her mother's eyes. On the surface of her thoughts swam the consciousness of what had hap- pened at the theater and the vague fear of what it might mean In the future. This was to be a night to remember. She longed, vet dreaded to have the kncwl- edge that lay behind those loving eyes. CHAPTER VIIL s THE LETTER FROM BSLOANE STREET. “Irish Life'has stopped,” sald Mrs. Gray, “and all thé money you put into it for poor Dick is lost. Nearly 200 pounds, dear.” g “‘Dick’ was Winifred's only brother, a year older than she, and Irish Life was a paper started in Dublin early in the sum- mer, of which Dick Gray had been made sub-editor because of the money his sis- ter had optimistically lent him for the purchase of certain shares. It had been put in by degrees, as it could bg spared from her salary of twelve pounds a week, which had begun about the first of March, and the full amount required had been sent off only & month ago. Mean- while, for Dick's sake, the girl and her mother had been living with the utmost economy and making sacrifices with un- flagging cheerfulness, for the prospects of the new paper had been represented as marvelously bright, and it had certainly ecemed a wonderful chance for Dick, ‘whose gifts, if any, were for & journalistic career. Now the money was gone, and poor Dick would be “out of berth,” as he had dolefully réminded his mother in the let- ter which told the bad news. There had been trickery somewhere, for if the pa- per was in danger of dissolution, the last payment would not have been accepted; but the excuses were very plausible, and Dick did not think that he would be able to get a penny back agaln. On any other night this blow would have fallen with comparative lightness \4 upon Winifred, who had all the buoyant hopefulness of her twenty *years; but bravely as she had flung back Lionel Macaire's insults, his threats had fright- ened her. His money and his well-known interest In theatrical affairs gave him in- finite power in the world in which she 'moved, and though she did mot exactly see how he could use it to hurt herrat all events in the present, there might be ways; and the solid foundation which a good engagement gave her seemed trem- bling under her feet as she reassured her mother. *“What's two hundred pounds after all?”’ she laughed brightly. *“With twelve pounds coming in every week, money soon counts up; and I'm getting to know a lot of newspaper men now, who are all very kind to me, and perhaps through them something will be found for Dick In London, which would be bet- ter than Ireland. And even though the money’s gone, it's not all wasted, for Dick bought his experfence. Oh, whie there's nothing worse than this, dear, you musn’t look so pale and heart-broken!” “There {s—something else, Winnie,” faltered Mrs. Gray. ‘Not worse—oh, not worse! Stil], I'm afraid it will grieve you to hear ft.” For a moment Winifred had forgotten her mother’s hint that “troubles come in twos and threes.” Her heart grew cold again. “It's—only about me,” went on the elder woman, almost apologetically. ““You know you made me promise that I'd see a doctor about myseif, and I said that I would when I could screw up the courage. 1 wrote to Sir Digby Field, asking for an appointment, and it came for to-day at three o'clock. I was glad that it was Wednesday, and matines day, for then vou need not know anything about it till it was over. You are not coming home to dinner, and T hoped that when I saw you at night after the theater I should have something reassuring to tell you. Buf: darling—I haven’t. It's the other way. “Mother!” cried Winifred, her face stricken white, her voice sharp with fear. She wound her arms tigl round the slender waist, holding the frall little fis- ure as if with her own young body she would defend it againet all harm. “Don’t look ilke that, darling!" her mother implored. “Sir Digby dldn’t say I must—die. He only told me that I was in danger, and that, if my life were to be saved, I must undergo a serious opera- tion. Not at once, but I should not wait longer than two or three months. After that, It might be—tao late!"” i “Would it be a dangerous operation? the girl asked breathlessly. “A little. It must aiways be so with such things, I fancy. But It is the ex- pense I am thinking of, Winnte. I didn’t know when I saw Sir Digby about Irish Lite and poor Dick. But when I came home, feeling somewhat upset, there was the letter waiting for me. It seemed al- most too much.” Winifred pressed her lips tightly to- gether over her own secret, as If to hide it under lock and key lest it should be- tray itself. She had quite resolved now that she would say nothing to make her mother’s burden heavier, unless circum- stances forced her later on to speak. “Don’t worry about the money, mother- kin. It will be all right, you'll see,” she sald. “And when you're well agaln—as . you will be soon—how happy we shall feel.” “I asked Sir Digby how much it would all cost,” sighed the little woman, “and he said it wouldn’t be safe to calculate upon less than £200. For I shall have to be a long time at 4 nursing home. I don't see how we can manage it."” “Nonsense!” cried Winifred." “Nothing easler. Money isn't what it used to be to us when I, poor little wretch, thou("hl. T was lucky to get £3 a week on tour. “And you lived on £1 and sent £2 to Dick and me ; T never wanted more, dear. You've no idea how passing rich a girl can.be on 20 shillings a week touring in the country, if she chums with another girl, as I did. Oh, there was plenty of fun in those da 1 like to look back on them!” As she looked back now, they seemed delightfully free from care. There had been no horrible milllonaires then, offering her champagne and many other things which she could not take. Somehow she comforted her mother, un- dressing her and putting her to bed as it she had been a child—for Jameson was never permitted to sit up for any minis- trations after the theater. Mother and daughter preferred then to help each other, and have their two small connect- ing bedrooms to themselves. But Winifred herself did not sleep. All the pent-up grief which she had not al- lowed to be seen, at thought of the suffer- ing and danger from which, at best, she could not save her adored mother, broke over her in a wave. She burled her burn- ing face in the plilow quivering as if un- der the strokes of a lash, though no tears came. Whatever happened, she must have money. There must be something for poor Dick, who seemed always so unlucky, even when hopes had been highest; and, above all, the little mother must be cared for as if she were a queen. Nothing must be lacking—nothing. Usually, when Winifred went to bed, she had only to close her eyelids to fall asleep, mot to wake until Jamesocu knocked in the morning and threw back the heavily lined blue curtains that kept the early light from pouring in at the open window. But to-night she lay listening feverishly to the quarter-hours as they were solemnly struck by St. Mary's Church clock, wondering if she would still be awake to hear the next. . She Invariably dld hear the next, and the next. And so morning came. Her habit was not to rlse till 9, as it was well, her mother sald, for young people who worked hard to have plenty of sleep. When it was half-past seven, however, she could bear to Me in bed no longer, and she had bathed and dressed without waking her mother in the next room be- fore it was time for the mald to come to her door. Already the letters had arrived and were walting on a table in the drawing- room until it should be time for Jameson to carry them to Mrs. Gray and her daughter. . On top was an envelope ad- dressed in Mr. Anderson's handwriting, and the girl’s heart gave a leap as she caught sight of it. He had written to her on several occa- slons, about the time when her engage- ment In his company was pending, but never since. & She took up the letter with a hand that was not quite steady and saw from the smart crest and monogram on the en- velope that it was the paper which he used at home. He must have written to her immediately on arriving at his house in Sloane street after the theater last night. A vision of him leaving the stage en- trance with Lionel Macaire and driving away in the latter's carriage, when both had bowed with elaborate formality to her, flashed into her head. Had the million- aire's revenge already begun by prejudic- ing the manager's mind against her? Surely Mr. Anderson would not be so un- falr to— But she would not walt to finish the question. She tore open the envelope. “Dear Miss Gray,” eald the actor-man- ager, “will you come to the theater to- morrow (Thursday) morning and ask for me half an hour before the time for re- hearsal? Yours truly, George Anderson.” There was nothing very alarming on the surface of this brief note, with the request which might have been made for one out of a dozen harmless reasons. But instinct that had brought the dark cloud of brooding presentiment last night spoke again gloomily. The rehearsals for “As You Like It,” which had begun abot eek ago, were called for ‘‘eleven every day. Therefore the appointment which Mr. Anderson wished Winifred to keep was at half-past 10. They sat talking together, the girl and her mother, later than usual, and Mrs. Gray, who often suffered at night, and was a restless sleeper, was gnaking up this morning for the hours she had lost. Winifred never allowed her to be called until she awoke of her own accord, and though this was generally early, to-day ‘Winifred had her breakfast and went away without seeing her mother. She left a short note, full of love, saying only that she was obliged to go down to the theater half an hour earlier than she had expected. ‘When the girl had first called upon Mr. Anderson at his request, a little unknown actress from the provinces, she had felt almost sick with excitement lest some- thing should go wrong at the last and she should lose the glorious chance she had been led to expect. She remembered that day and Its sensatlons with painful dis- tinctness this morning, but now her emo- tion was even more keen than it had been then. The actor-manager had an “office” at the theater, where he imagined that he transacted a great deal of business, and did, indeed, spend some hours of most days In the week. Winifred knew that she would be received there, and, when she had sent up word that she had ar- rived and would wait Mr. Anderson’s con- venience, she furtively pinched her cheeks to counteract the pallor she had seen In passing @ mirror. Whatever might be in store for her, she did not wish to betray the fact that she was frightened. In five or ten minutes Mr. Anderson’s Yyoung secretary came to fetch Miss Gray to the office, and at the door of that room he disappeared. The Interview was to be a strictly private one. The actor-manager sat at his desk, glancing over his correspondence which his secretary had placed ready for him. As Winifred was announced he rose slow- 1y, looking formidably large and impres- sive. His eyes were as dreamy as ever, but it seemed to the girl—or she Imagined it—that they were slightly restless, not willing to meet and dwell upon hers with the caressing, lingering gaze which was a characteristic of his in greeting a pretty woman. For once he appeared 1l at ease; his voice betrayed a certain agitation, as the voice of a sensitive or cowardly person will when something disagreeable has to be done. He gave Winifred a chair and sat down again himself, looking at a curious ring he wore and talkjng about the weather. “Yes; very cold,” the girl assented, and then felt that further beating about the bush would be so intolerable that she must scream aloud Instead of converse if she were forced to endure it. “You sent for me, Mr. Anderson,” she sald, “and here I am. *Yes, I sent for you,” he echoed. “The fact is, I've been thinking for several days since rehearsal began that—er—that the part of Cella is hardly suited to you. Your method is—er—rather too spirited.” Could it be possible, Winifred quickly asked herself, that he was about to tell her of Mrs. Peter Carlton’s intended de- parture and offer her the part of Rosa- 1ind, as Mr. Macaire had suggested, in spite of the thing that had happened last night? “1 always was bad rehearser,” she said. I know that's an amateurish ex- cuse, and T do try, but—" “I'm afraid that you'll never play Celia in a way to—do yourself justice,” Ander- son continued. ‘“It—really, you know, Miss Gray, you'd do yourself harm by playing It, after the hit you've made as Lady Kitty in “The Green Sunbonnet.’ " Winifred's lips began to feel oddly dry. She strove to speak naturally, but her volce sounded strained as she answered— for she knew not what was coming—"I'm sorry you think so, Mr. Anderson.” “I'm sorry, too—more sorry thamn I can tell you,” he responded, emphatically. There was sincerity in his accents, and Winifred could see in the man's hand- some face that he was actually unhappy and miserably ashamed of himself. She could read his mind well enough to be sure that he hated what he was dolng and that he was acting under strong com- pulsion. He must be in sad finarecial straits, she felt, to submit to such a hu- miliating yoke, for he had the reputation among theatrical, folk of being an honor- able man. Stunned as she was by the blow about to be dealt, the girl found a certain sympathy In her heart for the ex- ecutioner. “I'm sorry on your account and sorry on my own,” he finished. “Do you want S:' to give up the part, Mr. Anderson?’ she asked, bluntly. “I think it would be better for all our sakes, much as I dislike saying so. Our contract stipulates for two weeks' notice on elther side, you know, Miss Gray,” (he gazed out of the window as he spoke) “but the present circumstances are— rather peculiar. If you—er—gave up the part it would be tmpossible for you to go on with the rehearsals. And so, if agree- able to you, you need not attend, though, of courss, you would continue to draw your present salary for another fort- night.” CHAPTER IX. , WINIFRED'S DRAMATIC EXIT. Now at last the murder was out. Wini- fred wondered at her own coolness, for this came'near being a deathblow to her. She seemed to be numb, without feeling. Suddenly she cared no more than if this were happening to a girl she hardly knew. Her impulse would .have been to refuse the salary—to say that she would not take what she had not earned, und that she would consider her engagement terminated from this moment. But, with the pressing knowledge of her mother’'s needs, she could not afford to indulge her hurt pride. “I—don’t quite understand, Mr. Ander- son,” she sald in a strained volce, which seemed to come from some one eise. “Who's to play Lady Kitty if—I am dis- charged?™ “Don’t talk about being discharged, my dear child!"” exclalmed the actor-man- ager. “‘Of course, you can go on playing Lady Kitty if you really prefer, but I thought as there might be gossip in the theater about the part of Cella being ve- hearsed by some one else, it would be pleasanter for you to be out of it alto- gether. You understand, Miss Cotter could get through Kitty very decently, I dare say. And she's quite good enough for Cella, poor girl.” ‘Winifred sat gtill, thinking earnestly for a moment. Lionel Macaire had kept his word, and had lost not a moment in setting about it. There was no shadow of doubt that she owed this blow to him, though by what threats or what bribes he had made Anderson his cats- paw she could not tell. The millionaire had punished her, and if she took Mr. Anderson at his word and played Lady N Kitty during the next fortnight he would surely cause her to regret it, either by forcing himself upon her at the theater or by some other method which she could not foresee. Now that this terrible slight had been put upon her by the manager there would be nothing save humiliation for her at the Duke of Clarence’s, where she had been so happy; there was nothing more for her in the engagement which had brought her such joy, except to take the remaining money that was due and reiire with what grace she could. “Very well, Mr. Anderson,” she said, dully. “I do think I am belng hardly treated, but I know very well there’s no object to be galned by saying so, except a little rather bitter satisfaction to my- self, perhaps. I must accept the salary for the remaining fortnight, though I wish very much I need not—" “Please—please don’'t make this any harder for me than it Is already,” pleaded Anderson, rising hastily, that the dis- agreeable interview might the sooner come to an end. “Celia’s really not good enough for you, my dear Miss Gray. You can do better for yourself—much better.” Winifred took the hint and rose from her chair also. “It will be difficult to do anything at all so late In the year,” she said, with some bitterness, “especially when it Is known that I've been dis- charged from the Duke of Clarence’ “That word again!” ejaculated Ander- son, beginning to be irritable in the midst of his remorse. “No such thing will be known. You have been taken suddenly fll—or family trouble has forced you to glve up acting for the present—which you please. You've only to choose, and I'll have the same story for all reporters or any one who applies to the theater for in- formation.” “Family trouble!” The words stung Winifred like nettles. There was truth enough for such an excuse; nevertheless, she would not make it. “I think I should prefer,” she said, looking him stralght in Xhled eyes, “that the real truth should be told.” He flushed under her look and dropped the long lashes of which he was as proud as if he had been a professional beauty. *“At least, Miss Gray,” he retorted, sharp- 1y, “I have spared your teelings as much as possible. I have seen you myself, I have talked with you as one friend talks to another, and—" A sudden knock at the door seemed to strike the next word from his mind. Pffers ress In his hand<ome face as he Come in."” Something told Winifred that it was Macaire who stood outside the door, de- manding admittance, so when he entered he had not, at all events, the satisfaction of surprising her. He knew that George Anderson had sent for the girl, and the hour of appointment; probably he had been with the actor-manager when the letter was written, and he had come pure- ly for the pleasure of beholding the de- struction he had wrought. But at the sight of the hideous red face and the pale eyes which, though the eneering lips were silent, sald to her, “T warned you what to expect and I have kept my word,” Winifred's spirit rose. A bright color sprang to her cheeks. Her eyes were like stars. Never had she been so beautiful. She had faced the door as Lionel Macaire opened it, and she made the one glance she gave tell him it had been given merely because it was unavoidable. “Good morning and good-by, Mr. An- derson,” she sald, her head held high, and a proud smile on her lips. Then, drawing her dress aside that it might not be desecrated by touching the millionatre, she swept by him without a look. “By ‘Jove!” she thought she heard George Anderson say as the door closed behind her. As she went down the stalr from t office, the blood throbbing In her forehead seemed to blind her eyes with a reddish mist. Hardly knowing what she did, she found her way through labyrinths of pas- sages to the reglon of the dressing-rooms and shut herself Into her room. Thers she half fell upon the little wic..er sofa, where she had nestled so cozily many a time. She had loved the very smell of this theater—the queer, Indefinable odor made up of gas and mustiness, which is like nothing in the world outside a theater, or even further in front than “behind the scene: and to her the Duke of Clarence’'s had seemed to have an in- dividuality of its own. She would have known she was there, and nowhere else, if she had been led In blindfolded, and she would carry away the remembrance with her, though after to-day tae would never come into the place again. Her big dress basket stood against the wall and presently she began putting things together and packing them into it Jameson could have been sent to do this work, but somehaw she felt that she could leave it to no one else’s hands. There was a separate memory in everything touched, and she lald them in the basket now with a sad tenderness. It would be hard to look at them after this. She won- dered what theater they would be car- ried Into next, and so wondering her heart grew very cold. How should she tell her mother of what had happened— the poor, little mother, who ought to be petted and cheered and given all she wished fyr, instead of being buffeted by higher waves In the deep sea of trouble? ‘When everything was ready to be sent for Winifred took one last look at the room and turned away. In going out she had to pass a door which led to the sta, and the voices of the people rehearsing came to her ears. “Miss Cotter, down right quick as you can, there!” she heard the stage manager shout. The blood rushed up to Winifred Gray’'s face, for Miss Cotter was her understudy —a pretty girl of no particular talent, re- cruited from “BSoclety.” Winifred knew exactly what scene they were working at, and she hurried past the door, only anx- ious to meet no one. She was fortunate in this, for every- body was on the stage/and she had only to face the doorkeeper in his little room. “Off-again, miss he remarked in his privileged way. “Hope you ain't fl1? You're not looking quite yourseif.” “A little headache,” the girl answered, truthfully. “Good-by, Hansey.” And she hurried on, leaving him to sup- pose that she had been excused from re- hearsing on account of indisposition. ke and all the others, down to the supers and stage hands, would know the real facts—or, at least, the facts as Mr. An- derson Intended them to be represented— soon enough. CHAPTER X. HUMILIATION. As Winifred left the theater she feit that her next thought might be to find another engagement as speedily as pos- sible, for the need of money was too urgent to admit of an Lour’s delay In seeking for something to do. Her mother, who helieved that she had gone to rehear- sal, only starting a little earlier, would not expect her home again until four o'clock, for on days when there were re- hearsals and no matinees Winifred lunch- ed near the theater at two or half past, ‘when the long business of rehearsing was over. Now it was not yet twelve o'clock and Ere would have plenty of time for vistt- ing agents before she need go home. If only she could hear of an engagement the