"How's your lawsuit coming on?" inquired Pinkie, innocently.

"Oh, the lawyers are still fighting."

"Where is this lawsuit, anyhow?"

"Oh, somewhere out in British Columbia. You wouldn't know the name of the town if I told you. If I win, I am going to star in musical comedy."

"And if you lose?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I HAVN'T HAD AN ORCHID THIS SEASON."]

"Back to the s.e.xtette, I guess, unless Mr. Zinsheimer will star me."

"Where is 'Feathers'?" yawned Pinkie. "Haven't seen him for a week."

"Never you mind where he is," retorted Flossie, suddenly turning to her chum, suspiciously. "You've been askin' too many questions about Mr.

Zinsheimer lately. Don't you be ungrateful. Remember all I did for you."

Pinkie almost cried at this unjust insinuation. "Why, Flossie," she half sobbed, "I don't want Marky. The idea of thinking I'd want to steal him away from my dearest friend."

As Flossie consoled Pinkie and apologized, Mrs. Anderson approached a delicate subject nervously but with a determination strengthened by the memory of many similar occasions. "Young ladies," she began, "I hope you haven't forgotten about our little account."

"It shall be settled this evening, without fail," replied Flossie, rising haughtily. "I am sorry if I have inconvenienced you, but you shall have a check after dinner."

"You know I am perfectly willing to let the bills run on," explained Mrs. Anderson, with that ever-present doubt that one always has in dunning delinquents, "but neither of you young ladies has been trying to get a position."

"Not trying, indeed," repeated Pinkie. "We go to the managers' offices every day, but the horrid brutes will not see us."

"But look at Miss Farnum," said Aunt Jane. "She came here without experience, and secured an engagement instantly."

"Yes, in the chorus," sneered Flossie. "Fancy us in the chorus," rising and glancing admiringly at her well-rounded figure. "I want lines."

"But Martha didn't mind the chorus," cried Mrs. Anderson, warmly. "She began at the bottom, and if I do say it myself, I am proud of the way she has succeeded."

"Succeeded?" repeated Flossie. "I guess she has, if you judge by the number of times messenger boys bring her notes and flowers and presents.

I'll bet there's a diamond tiara hidden in those flowers now." She moved toward the box, picked it up curiously, and lifted the top. "American Beauties, eh?" she added. "I counted the number of messenger boys who came here yesterday to see Martha, and how many do you think there were?

Seven."

"I half believe she sends the things to herself," pouted Pinkie, maliciously.

"She couldn't, my dear, on eighteen dollars a week in the chorus,"

laughed Flossie. "There's no use talking, Aunt Jane--Martha may have been a little wild-flower when she blew into New York from the woods of Indiana or Ohio or wherever it was, but one thing you must give her credit for: some one must be awfully stuck on her."

CHAPTER VII

A HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILL

Martha walked home from the theater. It was after the matinee, in early winter, the period of the year when upper Broadway is the most wonderful street in all the world. Crowds of smartly dressed women and well-groomed men surged to and fro; taxicabs and private limousines darted in every direction; the clanging of the gongs of the street-cars and the shrill cries of newsboys added to the general confusion; and the lights of a thousand electric signs glared brilliantly in the semi-darkness of early nightfall. Shop windows tempted the pa.s.ser-by most alluringly, and Martha gazed longingly into many of them, but shook her head resolutely at the mere notion of purchasing anything. This was New York. This was life. At last she, Martha Farnum, an insignificant atom from a remote country town, was on Broadway, actually a part of Broadway life, for she was the second girl from the end in the new Casino production, "The Pet of Paris," and for more than four months now had been thrilled, fascinated and enthralled by the lure of the stage.

During all these weeks, she had lived quietly and regularly at Mrs.

Anderson's boarding-house. Clayton had met her at the Grand Central Station when she arrived in New York and had taken her to the place, introducing her to Mrs. Anderson in words which she had resented, though she had realized at the time that he was quite justified in his demands.

"Miss Farnum will be in your charge," he had explained. "It is understood that she is to do exactly as you direct in all things. She is not to accept dinner invitations from any one, she is to come straight home after each performance, and she is to go nowhere unless you accompany her."

These galling restrictions were now, however, beginning to prove irksome. Youth cannot be chained too tightly without tugging at its bonds. So it was with Martha after four months of the free-and-easy a.s.sociations behind the scenes, where even the best behaved girl will talk of the little supper at which she was a guest the night before. In fact, the hard work of rehearsals and the unusual hours which the stage requires its people to adopt, often made Martha wish that she, too, could have the freedom and the privileges which the other girls in "The Pet of Paris" enjoyed.

Consequently, when she arrived home this particular afternoon and threw herself into a large easy-chair, utterly tired, and just a little regretful that she had to dine in the somewhat gloomy, old-fashioned house, it was not with the greatest pleasure in the world that she prepared to answer to the usual cross-examination of well-meaning but sharp-tongued Aunt Jane.

"Did you come straight home after the matinee?" inquired the latter.

"Of course," answered Martha, sleepily. "There was such a crowded house.

And so many encores, I am dead tired."

"You seem much later than usual?"

"Now, Aunt Jane, don't ask so many questions. It's Martha this and Martha that and 'Martha, where have you been?' all day long, until I am beginning to get sick and tired of it."

"It is all for your own good, and you know whose instructions I am carrying out."

"I know," pouted Martha, regretfully. "But don't you think he is a little unreasonable? How could a bit of supper after the show hurt any one? Other girls go."

"Has your 'unknown admirer' been asking you to dine with him?" inquired Mrs. Anderson, sharply.

"My 'unknown admirer'?" repeated Martha, blankly. "Whom do you mean?"

"The one who sent you these flowers," cried Aunt Jane, bringing the box to Martha, who gazed in surprise at the splendid roses.

"More flowers, and from a man I have never spoken to," exclaimed Martha, reading the note.

At this moment Lizzie opened the door from the hall and entered.

"If you please, ma'am, that messenger boy is here again," she said. "He wants to see Miss Farnum herself."

"It's the boy who brought the flowers," explained Aunt Jane. "He has a note he won't give to any one but you."

"How exciting," cried Martha. "Do have him in."

Messenger No. 109 winked his eye maliciously at Mrs. Anderson, and tipped his cap respectfully to Martha, whom, from the directions regarding his note, he evidently deemed a person of some importance.

Martha opened the envelope, and a yellow-backed bill fluttered to the floor. Mrs. Anderson gasped, Lizzie stared, and the messenger boy politely picked it up and returned it to Martha. It was a hundred-dollar bill.

"Is dere any answer, lady?" inquired 109 stolidly.

Martha hesitated. She looked at the envelope again, then looked at the piece of paper which had enclosed the hundred-dollar bill.

"No," she said simply. "Yes--wait a second."