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  III

  Clancy woke with a shiver. Consciousness was not, with her, anachievement arrived at after yawning effort. She woke, always,clear-eyed and clear-brained. It was with no effort that she rememberedevery incident of yesterday, of last night. She trembled as, with hershabby bathrobe round her, she pattered, in her slippered feet, the fewsteps down the hall to the bathroom.

  The cold water did little to allay her nervous trembling. Zenda, lastnight, had referred to having lost a hundred thousand dollars. That wastoo much money to be lost cheerfully. Cheerfully? She'd seen thebeginning of a brawl, and from what Fay Marston had said to her, it hadprogressed brutally. And the mere departure of Ike Weber with hisunsuspected wife would not tend to hush the matter up.

  Back in her room, dressing, Clancy wondered why Weber's marriage hadbeen kept quiet. Fay had said, last evening, that "Weber's littlefriend" could not go to the party. Clancy had been asked to fill in. Whyhad Fay Marston not merely kept her marriage secret but searched forgirls to entertain her own husband? For Fay, even though she wasapparently quite callously and frankly dishonest, was not immoral,Clancy judged, in the ordinary sense with which that adjective isapplied to women.

  The whole thing was strange, incomprehensible. Clancy was too new toBroadway to know many things. She did not guess that a girl onlycasually acquainted, apparently, with Ike Weber could help in a cardgame as his own publicly accepted wife could not. Miss Fay Marston couldglimpse a card and nothing would be thought of it. Mrs. Ike Weber couldnot get away with the same thing. But Clancy had all of these mattersyet to learn.

  Down in the dining-room, presided over by Madame Napoli and her buxomdaughter, two shabby waiters stood idle. They looked surprised atClancy's entrance. _Madame_ ushered Clancy to a table.

  "It's easy seen you ain't been in the business long, Miss Ladue,"chuckled _madame_. "Gettin' down to breakfast is beginners' stuff, allright. At that, it would help a lot of 'em if they did it. You stick toit, Miss Ladue. The griddle-cakes is fine this morning."

  Clancy had a rural appetite. The suggestion of buckwheat cakes appealedto her. She ordered them, and had them flanked with little sausages, andshe prepared for their reception with some sliced oranges, and she alsodrank a cup of coffee.

  Her nervousness had vanished by the time she finished. What had she tobe concerned about? After all, she might as well look at last night'shappenings in a common-sense way. She could prove that she arrived inNew York only yesterday, that her acquaintance with Fay Marston--orWeber--had begun only last night. How could she be blamed? Still--andshe twitched her shoulders--it was nasty and unpleasant, and she hopedthat she wouldn't be dragged into it.

  The waiter brought her check to her. Clancy drew a fifty-dollar billfrom her pocketbook. The waiter scurried off with it, and _madame_, in amoment, came to the table with Clancy's change.

  "Carryin' much money?" she asked.

  "Quite a lot--for me," said Clancy.

  "Better bank it," suggested _madame_.

  Clancy looked blank. She hadn't thought of that. She'd never had abank-account in her life. But seven hundred dollars or so was a lot ofmoney. She took the name and address of a bank in the neighborhood, andthanked _madame_ for her offer of herself as a reference.

  It was barely nine o'clock when she entered Times Square. The crowddiffered greatly from the throng that she had observed last night. TimesSquare was a work-place now. Fascinated, Clancy watched the workersdiving into subway entrances, emerging from them, only to plunge, likebusy ants, into the office-buildings, hotels, and shops that borderedthe square. The shops fascinated her, too. She was too new to the city,too unlearned in fashion's whimsicalities to know that the hats andgowns and men's clothing shown in these windows were the last thing inthe bizarre.

  It was quite exciting being ushered into a private office in theThespian National Bank. But when it came to writing down the name:"Florine Ladue," she hesitated for a moment. It seemed immoral, wrong.But the hesitation was momentary. Firmly she wrote the _nom de theatre_.It was the name that she intended to make famous, to see emblazoned inelectric lights. It was the name of a person who had nothing in commonwith one Clancy Deane, of Zenith, Maine.

  She deposited six hundred and fifty dollars, received a bank-book and aleather-bound folding check-book, and strolled out upon Broadway with afeeling of importance that had not been hers when she had had cash inher pocketbook. The fact that she possessed the right to order the greatThespian Bank to pay her bills seemed to confer upon her a financialstanding. She wished that she could pay a bill right now.

  She entered a drug store a block from the bank and looked in thetelephone-book. Mademoiselle DeLisle had neglected to write upon thecard of introduction Morris Beiner's address. For a moment, Clancy felta sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. A doubt that, up to now, hadnever entered her head assailed her. Suppose that Mr. Beiner had goneinto some other business in some other city! Suppose he'd died!

  She sighed with relief when she found his name. There it was: "Beiner,Morris, Theatrical Agt., Heberworth B'ld'g. Bryant, 99087."

  The condescending young gentleman at the soda-fountain affably told herthat the Heberworth Building was just round the corner, on Forty-fifthStreet. To it, Clancy made her way.

  The elevator took her to the fifth floor, where, the street bulletin hadinformed her, Morris Beiner's office was located. There was his name, onthe door of room 506. For a moment, Clancy stood still, staring at thename. It was a name, Fanchon DeLisle had assured her, with a certaintythat had dispelled all doubt, owned by a man who would unlock forClancy the doors to fame and fortune.

  Yet Clancy trembled. It had been all very well, tied to a typewritingmachine in Zenith, to visualize fame and fortune in far-off New York. Ittook no great imagination. But to be in New York, about to take thefirst step--that was different.

  She half turned back toward the elevator. Then across her mind flashed apicture, a composite picture, of aunt Hetty, of Mr. Frank Miller, of ascore of other Zenith people who had known her since infancy. And thecomposite face was grinning, and its brazen voice was saying, "I toldyou so."

  She shook her head. She'd never go back to Zenith. That was the oneoutstanding sure thing in a world of uncertainties. She tossed her headnow. What a silly little thing she was! Why, hadn't even Fay Marstonlast night told her that her skin alone would make her a film success?And didn't she herself _know_ that she had talent to back up her goodlooks? This was a fine time to be nervous! She crossed the hall andknocked upon the door.

  A harsh voice bade her enter. She opened the door and stepped inside. Itwas a small office to which she had come. It contained a roll-top desk,of an old-fashioned type, two chairs, a shabby leather couch, halfhidden beneath somewhat dusty theatrical magazines, and twofiling-cases, one at either end of the couch. The couch itself wasplaced against the further wall, before a rather wide window that openedupon a fire-escape.

  A man was seated in a swivel chair before the roll-top desk. He wastilted back, and his feet were resting comfortably upon an open drawer.He was almost entirely bald, and his scalp was red and shiny. His nosewas stubby and his lips, thick, gross-looking, were clamped over a moistcigar. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and Clancy noticed that the noisilystriped shirt he wore, although there was an ornate monogram upon theleft sleeve, was of a flimsy and cheap grade of silk.

  "Welcome to our city, chicken!" was his greeting. "Sit down and take aload off your feet."

  His huge chest, padded with fat, shook with merriment at his ownwitticism.

  "Is this Mr. Beiner?" asked Clancy. From her face and voice she keptdisgust.

  "Not to you, dearie," said the man. "I'm 'Morris' to my friends, andthat's what you and I are goin' to be, eh?"

  She colored, hating herself for that too easy flow of blood to cheek andthroat.

  "Why--why--that's very kind of you," she stammered.

  Beiner waved his cigar grandiloquently.

  "Bein' kind to pretty fillies is the best thing
I do. What can I do foryou?"

  "Mademoiselle"--Clancy painfully articulated each syllable of the Frenchword according to the best pronunciation taught in the Zenith HighSchool--"Fanchon DeLisle gave me a card to you."

  Beiner nodded.

  "Oh, yes. How is Fanchon? How'd you happen to meet her?"

  "In my home town in Maine," answered Clancy. "She was ill with the'flu,' and we got right well acquainted. She told me that you'd get meinto the movies."

  Beiner eyed her appraisingly.

  "Well, I've done stranger things than that," he chuckled. "What's yourname, dearie?"

  Clancy had read quite a bit of New York, of Broadway. Also, she had hadan experience in the free-and-easy familiarity of Broadway's folk lastnight. Although she colored again at the "dearie," she did not resent itin speech.

  "Florine Ladue," she replied.

  Beiner laughed.

  "What's that? Spanish for Maggie Smith? It's all right, kid. Don't getmad. I'm a great joker, I am. Florine Ladue you say it is, and FlorineLadue it'll be. Well, Florine, what makes you want to go into themovies?"

  Clancy looked bewildered.

  "Why--why does any one want to do anything?"

  "God knows!" said Beiner. "Especially if the 'any one' is a young,pretty girl. But still, people do want to do something, and I'm one guythat helps some of 'em do it. Ever been in the movies at all?" Clancyshook her head. "Done any acting?"

  "I played in 'The Rivals' at the high-school graduation," she confessed.

  "Well, we'll keep that a dark secret," said Beiner. "You're an amachoor,eh? And Fanchon DeLisle gave you a card to me."

  "Here it is," said Clancy. She produced the card from her pocketbook andhanded it to the agent. Her fingers shook.

  Beiner took the card, glanced at it carelessly, and dropped it upon hisdesk.

  "From the country, eh? Ingenue, eh?" He pronounced it "anjenoo." Hetapped his stubby, broken-nailed fingers upon the edge of his desk."Well, I shouldn't wonder if I could place you," he said. "I know acouple companies that are hot after a real anjenoo. That's nice skin youhave. Turn round."

  Clancy stifled an impulse to laugh hysterically. Tears were very close.To be appraised by this gross man---- Nevertheless, she turned slowlyround, feeling the man's coarse eyes roving up and down the lines of herfigure.

  "You got the looks, and you got the shape," said Beiner. "You ain't toobig, and you ain't too small. 'Course, I can't tell how you'llphotograph. Only a test will show. Still----" He picked up the desktelephone and asked for a number.

  "Hildebloom there? This is Beiner talking. Say, Frank, you wanted ananjenoo, didn't you? I got a girl here in the office now that mightdo.... Yes; she's a peach. Fresh stuff, too. Just in from the country,with the bloom all on.... Bring her around? At six? You made a date,feller."

  He hung up the receiver and turned to the furiously blushing Clancy.

  "You're lucky, kid. Frank Hildebloom, studio manager for RosebushPictures, asked me to keep my eyes open for some new girls. He's a queerbug, Frank. He don't want professionals. He wants amateurs. Claims mostof the professionals have learned so many tricks that it's impossible tounlearn them. I'll take you over to him. Come back here at five."

  Somehow or other, Clancy found herself outside the office, foundherself in the elevator, in the street down-stairs. She'd expected much;she had come to New York with every confidence of achieving a greatsuccess. But doubts linger unbidden in the hearts of the most hopeful,the most ambitious, the most confident. To have those recreant doubtsscattered on the very first day! Of course she'd photograph well. Hadn'tshe always taken good pictures? Of course, moving pictures weredifferent; still---- She wished that there were some one whom she knewintimately--to whom she could go and pour out the excitement that waswelling within her. What an angel Fanchon DeLisle had been! PoorFanchon--a soubrette in a cheap burlesque company! But she, ClancyDeane--she was forgetting. She, Florine Ladue, would "do something" forFanchon DeLisle, who had set her feet upon the path to fortune.

  She didn't know what she'd do, but she'd do something. She beheld avision, in which Fanchon DeLisle embraced her with tears, thanked her.She endowed a school for film-acting in Zenith, Maine.

  She walked through Forty-second Street to Fifth Avenue. She boarded apassing 'bus and rode up-town. She did not know the names of the hotelsshe passed, the great mansions, but--famous actresses were receivedeverywhere, had social position equal to the best. In a year or so, shewould ride up the avenue in her own limousine. At Grant's Tomb, she leftthe 'bus. She walked along Riverside Drive, marveling at the Palisades.

  Hunger attacked her, and she lunched at Claremont, thrilling withexcitement, and careless of prices upon the menu. She was going intothe movies! What did a couple of dollars more or less matter to her?

  Still moving in a glowing haze, out of which her name in brilliantelectric lights thrust itself, she returned in mid-afternoon to theNapoli. Carefully she bathed herself. As meticulously as though she weregoing to her wedding, she dressed herself in fresh linen, in her bestpair of silk stockings. She buttoned herself into her prettiest waist,brushed the last speck of lint from her blue suit, adjusted her hat tothe most fascinatingly coquettish angle, and set forth for theHeberworth Building.

  At its doorway, she stepped aside just in time to avoid being knockeddown by a man leaving the building in great haste. The man turned toapologize. He wore a bandage across one eye, and his hat was pulled downover his face. Nevertheless, that mop of dark hair rendered himrecognizable anywhere. It was Zenda!

  For a moment, she feared recognition. But the movie director wasthinking of other things than pretty girls. Her hat shielded her face,too. With a muttered, "Beg pardon," Zenda moved on.

  He had not seen her--this time. But another time? For years to come, shewas to be in a business where, necessarily, she must come into contactwith a person so eminent in that business as Zenda. Then, once again,common sense reasserted itself. She had done nothing wrong. She couldprove her lack of knowledge of the character of Fay Marston and herhusband. Her pretty face was defiant as she entered the HeberworthBuilding.