Take Miss Starkweather: he had seen that if he fed her vanity unsparingly--not her physical vanity, but her pride in her own soul, and in her League presidency--she blazed up into a flame which consumed even her purpose in causing the interview. Once already, by no remarkable effort, he had been able to divert her attention; and it was now imperative for him to keep it diverted until he had raised five thousand dollars. And if she were so susceptible, why shouldn't Mr. Mix venture a trifle further? He knew that she regarded him as an important man; why shouldn't he let himself be won over, slowly and by her influence alone, to higher things? Stopping, of course, just short of actually becoming a League partisan? Why shouldn't he feed her fat with ethics and adulation, until she were more anxious for his cooperation than for his money? If he couldn't play hide-and-seek for six months,--if he couldn't turn her head so far that she couldn't bear to press him for payment--he wasn't the strategist he believed himself to be. But in the meantime, where was he to get the money to live on? Still, Mirabelle came first.

On Sunday, he fortified himself from his meagre supply of contraband, ate two large cloves, and went formally to call on her. He remained an hour, and by exercise of the most finished diplomacy, he succeeded in building up the situation exactly as he had planned it. The note hadn't been mentioned; the League hadn't been given a breathing-s.p.a.ce; and Mirabelle was pleading with him to see the light, and join the crusade. Finally, she leaned forward and put her hand on his arm.

"Two weeks ago," she said, "I told the League I was going to give it a real surprise this next Tuesday. What I meant was money. The money for that note. But I'd hate to have you sell any securities when they're down so low. And besides, _any_body can give money--just money. What we need most is men. Let me do something different. You're one of the big men here. You count for a good deal. We want you. I said I'd give 'em a surprise--let me make the League a present of _you_." She bestowed upon him a smile which was a startling combination of sharpness and appeal. "I'm certainly going to keep my promise, Mr.

Mix. I'm going to give 'em one or the other--you or the five thousand.

Only I tell you in all sincerity, I'd rather it would be you."

Mr. Mix sat up with a jerk. The climax had been reached six months too soon. "Dear lady--"

"You can't refuse," she went on with an emphasis which sobered him.

"We want you for an officer, and a director. I've taken it up with the committee. And you _can't_ refuse. You believe everything we believe. Mr. Mix, look me in the eye, and tell me--if you're true to yourself, how _can_ you refuse?"

"That isn't it," he said, truthfully enough. "I--I wouldn't be as valuable to you as you think."

"We'll judge of that."

He knew that he was in a corner, and he hunted desperately for an opening. "And--in _any_ event, I couldn't become an officer, or even a director. I--"

"Why not, pray?"

"I haven't the time, for one thing, nor the experience in--"

She swept away his objections with a stiff gesture. "You're modest, and it's becoming. But either you're with us or against us: there's no half-way about morals. If you're with us, you ought to show your colours. And if you _are_ with us, you'll lead us, because you're a born leader. You inspire. You instill. And for the sake of the common welfare--" She paused: he was staring at her as if hypnotized. "For the sake of the city and the state and the nation--" His eyes were wide, and filled with a light which deceived her. "For the sake of civic honour and decency and self-respect--"

Mr. Mix cleared his throat. "Yes, but--"

Again, she leaned out and touched his arm. "For _my_ sake?"

Mr. Mix recoiled slightly. "For _your_ sake!" he muttered.

"Yes, for mine. The sister of your oldest friend."

He owed her five thousand dollars, and if she demanded payment, he was a bankrupt. "Why does it mean so much to you?" he asked, sparring for time.

"It would be an epoch in the history of the League, Mr. Mix."

"You spoke about leadership. No one can hope to replace yourself."

"Thank you--I know you mean it. But _no_ woman can lead a campaign such as the one we're just starting. It takes a strong, dominant man who knows politics. Of course, when we go after dancing and cards and dress-reform, I guess I can do all right, but in _this_ campaign--"

"What campaign is this, Miss Starkweather?"

"Sunday enforcement."

Mr. Mix pursed his lips. "Really?"

She nodded. "We're going to concentrate on one thing at a time. That's first."

"Close all the theatres and everything?"

"Tight!" she said, and the word was like the lash of a whip. "Tight as a drum."

Mr. Mix controlled himself rigidly. "You'll have to pardon my seeming indelicacy, but--" He coughed behind his hand. "That might bring about a very unhappy relationship between my family and yours. Had you thought of it?"

"Henry? Humph! Yes. I'm sorry, but I don't propose to let my family or anybody else's stand in the way of my principles. Do _you_? No. If Henry stands in the way, he's going to get run over. Mark my words."

His expression was wooden, but it concealed a thought which had flashed up, spontaneously, to dazzle him. In spite of his age and experience, Mr. Mix threatened to blush. The downfall of Henry meant the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr. Mix himself could a.s.sist in swinging the balance. And he couldn't quite destroy a picture of Mirabelle, walking down the aisle out of step to the wedding march. Her arms were loaded with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a crisp yellow bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to snort in deprecation, and he did neither. He was too busy with the consciousness that at last he was in a position to capitalize his information. He knew what n.o.body else did, outside of Henry and his wife, Mirabelle, Mr. Archer and probably Judge Barklay and if he flung himself into the League's campaign, what might he now accomplish?

He looked at Mirabelle. Her eyes betrayed her admiration. Mr. Mix drew a very long breath, and in the s.p.a.ce of ten seconds thought ahead for a year. The League was ridiculously radical, but if Mr. Mix were appointed to direct it, he was confident that he could keep Mirabelle contented, without making himself too much of a ludicrous figure. All it needed was tact, and foresight. "If I could only spare the time to help you--but you see, this is my dull season--I have to work twice as hard as usual to make an honest dollar--"

"Would you accept an honorarium?"

"Beg pardon?"

"If you took charge of the drive, would you accept a salary? And give us most of your time? Say, four days a week?"

Once more, his thoughts raced through the year. "Now," he said, presently, "you _are_ making it hard for me to refuse."

"Only that? Haven't I made it impossible?"

To Mr. Mix, her tone was almost more of a challenge than an invitation. He looked at her again; and at last he nodded. "I think--you have."

She held out her hand. "I've always respected you as a man. Now I greet you as a comrade. We'll make this city a place where a pure-minded man or woman won't be ashamed to live. I tell you, I won't be satisfied until we reach the _ideal_! And prohibition was only one tiny move in advance, and we've miles to go. I'm glad we're going the rest of the way together. And it wouldn't surprise me in the least if you came out of it Mayor. That's _my_ idea."

Mr. Mix, with the faint aroma of cloves in his nostrils, backed away.

"Oh, no, I don't dream of _that_ ..." he said. "But I feel as if I'd taken one of the most significant steps of my whole life. I--I think I'd better say good afternoon, Miss Starkweather. I want to be alone--and meditate. You understand?"

"Like Galahad," she murmured.

Mr. Mix looked puzzled; he thought she had a cold. But he said no more; he went home to his bachelor apartment, and after he had helped himself to three full fingers of meditation, together with a little seltzer, he smiled faintly, and told himself that there was no use in debating the point--a man with brains is predestined to make progress.

But he couldn't help reflecting that now, more than ever, if any echo of his New York escapades, or any rumour of his guarded habits got to Mirabelle's ears--or, for that matter, to anybody's ears at all--his dreams would float away in vapour. Perhaps it would be wise to explain to Mirabelle that he had once been a sinner. She would probably forgive him, and appreciate him all the more. Women do.... It was curious that she had mentioned him as a possible Mayor. It had been his dearest ambition. He wondered if, with his present reputation, and then with the League behind him, there were a ghost of a chance....

CHAPTER VII

There was probably no power on the face of the earth which could have driven Henry Devereux to the operation of a picture theatre, strictly as a business venture; but when he once got it into his head that the Orpheum wasn't so much a business as a sporting proposition, he couldn't have been stopped by anything short of an injunction. Immediately, his att.i.tude was normal, and from the moment that he resolved to take possession of his property, and operate it, he was indifferent to the public estimate of him. The thing was a game, a game with a great stake, and set rules, and Henry took it as he once had taken his golf and his billiards and his polo--joyously, resiliently, determinedly, and without the slightest self-consciousness, and with never an eye for the gallery.

He was inspirited, moreover, by the att.i.tude of his friends. To be sure, they laughed, but in their laughter there was no trace of the ridicule he had feared. They took the situation as a very good joke on Henry, but at the same time, because gossip had already begun to build up a theory to explain that situation, there were several of them who wished that a similar joke, with a similar nubbin, might be played on themselves. They told this to Henry, they urged him to go ahead and become a strictly moral Wallingford, they slapped him on the back and a.s.sured him that if there was justice in the Sunday-school books, he was certain to finish in the money; and Henry, who had provided himself with several air-tight alibis, found them dead stock on his hands. He had known, of course, that he could count on Bob Standish, and a few of his other intimates, but the hearty fellowship of the whole circle overwhelmed him. He knew that even when they waxed facetious, they were rooting for him; and this knowledge multiplied his confidence, and gave him fresh courage.

And yet, with all the consciousness of his loyal backing, he was considerably upset to read in the _Herald_, on the very morning that he took control of his property, a seven column streamer headline which leaped out to threaten him.

"SUNDAY THEATRES AND AMUs.e.m.e.nTS MUST GO!"--MIX

Prominent Business Man Turns Reformer