CHAPTER VIII

SANFORD GORDON REAPPEARS

A smart limousine car darted across Broadway, turned the corner, and drew up before the door of Mrs. Anderson's boarding-house. A tall, dark, good-looking chap, whose erect figure was completely enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat, emerged, and walked briskly up the steps. Lizzie answered the bell, and started back in surprise when the stranger calmly stepped inside, closed the door, slipped her a dollar bill, and said quietly:

"Take this card to Miss Farnum. She is expecting me."

"Yes, sir," stammered Lizzie. "Will you wait in the parlor, sir?"

"So this is where she lives?" mused the visitor, shaking his head as he looked around the neat but poorly furnished room, with its supply of theatrical photographs and the large picture of Arnold Lawrence, leading man, on the piano. "I'll soon get her out of this miserable hole."

Martha Farnum entered, her step so light that he did not hear her until she touched his arm and extended her hand in greeting. "Mr. Gordon!"

"I received your message," cried Sanford, turning quickly and clasping her hand with such fervor that Martha unconsciously sought to withdraw it. "I'm glad you remember me."

"I remembered the name," explained Martha. "You are a man so much talked about that it is not strange a little country girl should remember the time she first met so celebrated a personage. But when you sent me the note to-night, I realized for the first time that it was you who had been sending me so many presents."

"Only a few trifles--"

"And so I wanted to see you."

"That was kind of you," replied Gordon, as they sat on the sofa. "I have been wanting to see you all these weeks, but somehow I didn't know how to begin. Finally, to-night, I decided to write you a little message and see if you remembered me."

Martha turned toward him frankly.

"I want to know the meaning of your remarkable presents," she said, with the utmost ingenuousness.

Gordon laughed a trifle, as though to dismiss the matter.

"Nonsense," he declared. "They weren't so very remarkable. A few presents and a little pin-money which I thought might come in handy for a girl getting a small income."

"Such presents would be appreciated by some girls," replied Martha, offering him a small packet which she had held in her hand, "but I have no right to take them."

"Then you haven't spent anything?" exclaimed Gordon, in surprise, looking at the roll of yellow-backed bills and the half-dozen trinkets which she returned to him.

"Not a dollar. I would have returned them sooner, but I didn't know who the mysterious donor was."

"Please keep the money, Miss Farnum, and the other things. They mean nothing to me, and think of the comfort and pleasure they can bring you."

"I have no right to accept anything from you."

"Then take the money for some one else. There must be some pet charity, some deserving chorus girl who has a sick mother, some fresh-air fund you want to contribute to. Please don't ask me to take back things so freely given."

"No, I cannot take it," replied Martha, firmly.

Gordon twirled his moustache nervously and peered curiously at her. Here was a case, indeed, one which the fastidious Sanford had never previously encountered. A chorus girl to refuse money and presents? Unprecedented! How the chaps at the club would chaff him if he ever told the story. He--the best-known boulevardier of Broadway, a welcome guest at every Bohemian gathering, who called actors and managers by their first names and was the most flattered and most sought after member of that queer white-light society of night revellers which regarded the setting of the sun as the dawning of a new day--he, Sanford Gordon, virtually flouted by an obscure chorus girl whom he had deigned to honor with his attentions? Why, the thing was unbelievable.

"Are you in earnest?" he demanded.

"Certainly," replied Martha, rising. "I cannot be under obligations to you or any one else, especially in money matters."

"Listen, Miss Farnum," cried Gordon, coming to her. "My conduct may seem strange to you. Call it a whim, if you like. But since I saw you that first night at the Casino, I have wanted to be friends with you. Can't we be friends?"

"Friends? Why, of course," replied Martha, sincerely.

"You want to succeed in your profession. Let me help you."

"What could you do?"

"I know the manager pretty well, for one thing. Victor Weldon is going to make a few new productions this season, and if I asked him to give you a part, he would probably do it."

"But I want to succeed on my merits," insisted Martha. "If I am to win success, I must deserve it. I should be ashamed and humiliated if I secured an engagement through influence, and then failed."

"But why refuse influence?" protested Gordon. "It gives you the opportunity, and that is something every one must have. Many a clever actor and actress is walking Broadway to-day without an engagement, simply because of lack of opportunity. Now, if Weldon offers you a part in his new production at the Globe Theater, you won't refuse it, will you?"

"No, I wouldn't do that," pondered Martha. "But do you think I could play a small part?"

"Of course you can, and anyhow, never give up without a trial. Weldon might even offer you the leading role if the part suited you."

"The leading role?" gasped Martha. "Impossible!"

"Not at all," continued Gordon. "I happen to know that in his new production the leading role is that of a simple little country girl--just the sort of ingenue you were when I first met you at French Lick. The songs are simple. In fact, it's a little play with songs--not a big musical production. Your very simplicity and naturalness would make you splendidly suited to the role."

"It sounds like a dream," cried Martha, wonderingly. "Are you sure Mr. Weldon would ever give me a trial in the part?"

Gordon came close to her. "If I ask it," he said impressively and with a queer inflection of his voice which Martha did not understand. "If I ask it, the thing is done. Come out to dinner with me and we'll talk it over."

Martha's heart sank. "I'd like to, really," she said wearily, "but I've never been out to dinner before, and Aunt Jane would be furious if I went."

"You are not responsible to--your Aunt Jane, as you call her--are you?"

"No, but--"

"There isn't any one else, is there?"

"Yes--no--that is--"

"I thought you were here alone?"

"I am alone," replied Martha, with a sudden outburst of rebellion against the conditions with which she had surrounded herself. "I am responsible to no one and can do as I please. Still--" she hesitated tearfully, "I don't think I'd better go."

"I've got my car outside. Come up to Rector's and have a bite. I'll drive you to the theater afterwards."

"Oh, I'd love to," cried Martha. "I wonder if I dared."

"Of course. Come along."

"But I couldn't go in these clothes," exclaimed Martha. "I'd have to change--I've got a little evening frock I used to wear to dances back in Indiana. Oh, I'm sure there can be no harm, and even if Aunt Jane is angry, it will blow over by to-morrow."

"Of course. How soon will you be ready?"

"In twenty minutes."

"I'll drive over to the club and return for you. I'd wait here only these boarding-house parlors are so public. And that reminds me--you'd better move to some other place where you can have some comfort and decent surroundings."

"I'm sure this is very nice, and all I can afford," replied Martha, with some show of spirit.

"Oh, you can afford better quarters when Weldon engages you to-morrow," replied Gordon. "Your salary will be bigger, of course. Hurry up and change your togs. I'll wait out front in the car when I return."

Three minutes later, Martha was still standing alone in the otherwise empty parlor. Indecision was written on her face. Gordon had gone, but still she made no move toward her room and the changing of her gown. The outer door had slammed, and Flossie Forsythe entered with the usual harmonious accompaniment of the rattling chatelaines.

"Hello, Martha," cried Flossie. "Wasn't that Sanford Gordon just got in his limousine in front of the house? Came from here, too. I saw him just as I turned the corner."

"Really?" replied Martha, coldly, moving toward the door. "I suppose you know him better than I do," she added, as she left the room.

"Humph," murmured Flossie. "Stuck-up show-girl."

"Where's Pinkie?" inquired Mrs. Anderson, entering to light the gas. "Hasn't she returned yet?"

"Has Pinkie gone out?" inquired Flossie, munching a caramel.

"Yes. She drove off in a taxicab with some man half an hour ago. I thought he was a friend of yours."

"Pinkie drove off in a taxicab with a man?" Flossie fairly shrieked in amazement. "Will wonders never cease?"

"I couldn't see who it was," explained Aunt Jane, as the door-bell announced another visitor. "But I know it was a man."

"D'je ever hear the like of that?" Flossie shook her head wonderingly. "Seems to me I'm getting the double cross."

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Lawrence," cried Mrs. Anderson, in the hallway, ushering in a distinguished-looking individual with crisp, curly, dark hair, a smoothly shaven face, an elegant bearing and a far-away look in his flashing, dark eyes. "I'm so glad to welcome you home again--for you know I like to feel that all my guests are, after all, members of a happy little family."

"And glad I am to be back in your hospitable house," responded Lawrence. "What's this I see? My photograph?" he added, beaming with delight and gazing admiringly at the large photo on the piano.

"If we cannot have you, Mr. Lawrence," declared Mrs. Anderson, feelingly, "it pleases us to always have your photograph before us."

"The good lady is devoted as ever to me," thought Lawrence to himself. Aloud: "Ah, this is indeed a home for us actors, my dear Mrs. Anderson--a real home."

"This is another member of our family," explained Aunt Jane. "Miss Flossie Forsythe, Mr. Lawrence."

"How do you do?" Lawrence curtly acknowledged the introduction.

"I seen you in Harlem once," replied Flossie, admiringly. "I recognized you at once by your photograph."

"Indeed? I believe my features are somewhat familiar to the general public."

"Oh, I'm in the profession, too," added Flossie, proudly.

"Indeed? The chorus?"

"Why, the idea--"

"For my part, I am not one of those who regard the chorus as a legitimate branch of the acting profession. It is something beyond the strict limits of our art, like the scene painter, the property master, the musician. The actor is a thing apart."

Flossie collapsed on the sofa as he disappeared into the hall with Mrs. Anderson. "Well, wouldn't that give you tonsillitis!" she ejaculated.

The door from the hall was suddenly thrown open as though Hercules had brushed it aside as he would a fly, and Pinkie Lexington burst into the room looking like a rainbow. In place of the old, dilapidated traveling suit, she wore a smart new gown of purple velvet. A hat with a gorgeous purple plume almost concealed her face, and round her shoulders hung an elaborate set of furs. Close behind this gorgeous apparition was "Marky" Zinsheimer, a trifle nervous and ill at ease at suddenly finding so many persons around.

"Hello, everybody," cried Pinkie. "How do you like my rig?"

"Pinkie!" shouted Flossie, aghast. "Is it really you?"

"For the love of Heaven!" declared Mrs. Anderson, following her in and clasping her hands together in mute admiration.

"Stunning, by Jove!" Even Arnold Lawrence was moved to positive admiration.

"I'd like to see the manager who refuses me an engagement when I drag these togs into his office," cried Pinkie, proudly pirouetting to show the outfit from all sides.

"You look like ready money, my dear," gasped Flossie. "But where on earth did you get the junk?"

"Never you mind," replied Pinkie, obviously embarrassed.

"Mrs. Anderson said you went out riding in a taxi with a man," said Flossie, wonderingly. Then, as her eyes for the first time fell on Zinsheimer, who was trying to edge toward the door and escape unnoticed, she sprang to her feet, pointed her finger at the shrinking "Marky," and screamed: "With him?"

"None of your business," retorted Pinkie.

"Marky, have you been out with Pinkie?" cried Flossie. "Answer me."

"That's the man. Certainly," declared Mrs. Anderson.

"Well, what of it?" stammered "Marky." "I just took Pinkie down to a few of the stores, and there you are."

"Oh, you cat!" cried Flossie, stamping her foot and clenching her fists. "You hypocrite!"

"Now see here, I thought you girls was friends," began Zinsheimer. "Kiss and make up, girls."

"I won't call any one names," responded Pinkie, with the air of a martyr. "She has insulted me, but I will forgive her if she apologizes. Marky, tell her to apologize."

"Never!" cried Flossie, swinging in a circle so abruptly that the rattling chatelaines shot out at an angle of forty-five degrees. "I will never speak to her again, or to you either, Marky Zinsheimer. I'm through with both of you. In all my stage career this is the crowning disappointment. Oh, the degradation! To be cut out by a fat blonde!"

"Marky" Zinsheimer edged toward the door.

"This," he declared, "is where Marky Zinsheimer exits smilingly."