At this psychological moment, Miss Pinkie Lexington emerged from the boudoir. She shrieked at the sight.

"Marky," she cried. "You here with Flossie?"

Flossie proudly drew Zinsheimer far from the possibility of contact with Miss Lexington, and proudly, almost haughtily, threw a defiant look at her rival.

"My _husband_, Mr. Zinsheimer," she said.

Pinkie, with a scream, sank upon the big arm-chair and rocked herself to and fro. "They are married," she moaned. "They are married."

"This morning, dear," smiled Flossie, coldly. "Thanks so much for your congratulations."

"Married," repeated Pinkie, incredulously. "Married."

Zinsheimer advanced cautiously, and gave her several encouraging pats on the shoulder.

"There, now, don't take on so," he said suavely. "There's other fish in the sea, almost as good. It isn't half as bad as what they say in the papers about the play. Listen to this," he added, unfolding a newspaper and reading: "'A luridly ludicrous exhibition of maudlin mush,' Ach Gott, what you think of that? 'A misguided author loaded a thirteen-inch gun to the muzzle with idiotic words and reduced a large and long-suffering audience to a peppered wreck. As an author, he's a joke.

As a murderer, he has the punch.' What funny fellows those critics are.

Here's what he says about Miss Farnum: 'The star--who, by the way, could only be observed with the aid of a Lick telescope--was only a shooting star. She made one faint, fantastic fizzle, then dropped without even a hiss into the gloom of merciful oblivion. She was not even a meteor, and only an innate sense of delicacy prevents our calling her a devil-chaser.' No wonder the ladies love the _Sun_. Now, Pinkie, listen--here's what he says about _you_."

"What?" shouted Pinkie. "Does that man dare--"

"He does. Listen: 'Among the cast appeared Miss Pinkie Lexington, with a German accent on her Lex; a portly person of the oval type. She looked like a turnip and acted the part artistically. Had this succulent vegetable only burst from her scant foliage--but there, who roasts a turnip?'"

"Oh, if he were only here now, where I could get my mitts on him,"

shouted the frantic Pinkie, springing to her feet. "Oh, let me go. I am stifling. Thank heaven, the air outside at least is pure." And Pinkie stormed from the room.

Flossie gazed after the retreating form of her former chum.

"Good exit, that," she observed. "Pinkie really ought to go in for melodrama."

Martha, who had heard enough of the commotion to realize what was going on, entered and congratulated both Flossie and Mr. Zinsheimer.

"Sorry you are leaving this place," volunteered "Marky." "Any--er--money troubles?"

"None whatever, thank you," replied Martha. "I am going to leave the stage and go back to my old home in Indiana."

"Leave the stage?" gasped Flossie.

"If you ever need a.s.sistance, you know"--"Marky" coughed confidentially.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SHE LOOKED LIKE A TURNIP AND ACTED THE PART ARTISTICALLY."]

"Thank you. Good-bye," replied Martha, smiling.

"Marky," pouted Flossie, "I think we'd better be going. Come--you promised to buy me a lot of new things this morning. Hurry up, _angel_."

"Angel?" repeated Zinsheimer. "That's just what I would like to be, but she won't let me. All right, Flossie, I'm coming."

CHAPTER XV

THE FINAL RECKONING

Gordon, too, had spent a restless night. Leaving the theater abruptly after giving orders to dismiss the audience, he had driven furiously to his club. There, in the seclusion of the grill-room and in a niche not far removed from the bar, he had endeavored to alleviate his disappointment by partaking of many gin rickeys. Late at night some of his friends interrupted him at this amus.e.m.e.nt to tell him of the new play at the Globe.

"New play?" he repeated. "Why, the theater wasn't open."

"Sure it was," replied one of his companions. "But they might as well have kept it closed. Beastly piece, hackneyed stuff, stale jokes, bad company, and the star--piffle. Nice enough little girl, you know, very pretty and all that, but she can't act for sour apples."

Gordon listened in surprise. "You mean to say," he demanded, "that Martha Farnum appeared at the Globe to-night?"

"Surest thing you know," his friend replied. "I was there and saw her."

Thereupon Gordon had hunted up Weldon, bitterly a.s.sailed him for his treachery, and learned the whole truth of Clayton's interference. The fact that the girl had won out against him worried him. People didn't usually triumph over his bulldog tenacity and obstinate determination.

However, when the morning broke, he felt that he must have another interview with the girl. If he had been mistaken in her--if she really had the divine spark, after all, or something in its place which helped her to face that unsympathetic audience the night before--he wanted to discover it, too. Therefore, shortly after Martha had finished packing, he was announced, and told to come up.

"I really ought not to see you, Mr. Gordon," said Martha, simply, in a businesslike tone. "But there are certain things that must be said before I go away."

"Where are you going?" cried Gordon, in surprise.

"Home--to Indiana."

"I don't believe it," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "You are going away with that man Clayton."

"That is not true," replied Martha, with heat.

"Well, you ought to feel grateful to him for letting you appear last night, after I had stopped you."

In spite of herself, Martha couldn't resist the inclination to smile, but it was a wan smile.

"I wish he had stopped me, too," she said.

"Oh, do you? And yet you turned from me, who can give you everything, to him, who can give you nothing."

"He has given me more than you can ever offer."

"What?"

"The right to a friendship that is good and true. I am glad you came this morning, for we must have a settlement."

"A settlement? How?"

"I to keep what is mine, and to return that which is yours."

"Return what?"