 5 Do you remember Lady Patroness's day at the cruelty mag? Remember how the place smelt of cleaning ammonia on the bare floors? Remember the black dresses we all wore and the white aprons with the little bibs and the oily sweetness of the matron, and how our faces shone and tingled from the soap and the rubbing? Remember it all? Well, who'd have thought then that Nance Olden ever would make use of it? On the level, too. Drop the cruelty and tell you about the stage? Why it's bare boards back there, bare's the cruelty, but oh, there's something that you don't see, but you feel it. Something magic that makes you want to pinch yourself to be sure you're awake. I go round there just doped with it. My face, if you could see it, must look like Molly's kids when she is telling him fairy stories. I love it, Mag, I love it. And what do I do? That's what I was trying to tell you about the cruelty for. It's a little act that was made for Lady Gray that there are four charity girls on the stage, and I'm one of them. Lady Gray? Why, Mag, how can you ever hope to get on if you don't know who's who? How can you expect me to associate with you if you're so ignorant? Yes, a real lady as real as the wife of a Lord can be. Lord Harold Gray is a sure enough Lord, and she's his wife, but a chippy just the same. That's what she is, in spite of the gray emeralds and that great gray rose diamond she wears on the tiniest chain around her scraggly neck. Do you know, Mag Monahan, that this lady Harold Gray was just a chorus girl and a sweet chorus it must have been if she sang there when she nabbed Lord Harold? You better keep your eye on Nancy Olden, her first thing you know she'll marry the czar of Russia, or Tom Dorgan poor fellow when he gets out. Well just the same, Mag, if that white-faced, scrawny little creature can be a lady, a girl with ten times her brains and at least half a dozen times her good looks, oh we're not shy on the stage, Mag, about throwing bouquets at ourselves. Can she act? Don't be silly, Mag, can't you see that Obermuller's just hiring her title and playing it in big letters on the bills for all it's worth? She acts the lady patroness, come to look at us charity girls. She comes on though looking like a fairy princess, her dress is just blazing with diamonds, there's the lady's cornet in her hair, her thin little arms are banded with gold and diamonds and on her neck, oh, Mag, Mag, that rose diamond is the color of rose leaves and a fountain's jet through which the sun is shining. It's long, long as my thumb, I swear it is, Mag, nearly, and it blazes, oh it blazes. Well it blazes dollars into Obermuller's box, all right, for the grey jewels are advertised in the bill with this one at the head of the list, the star of them all. You see it's this way, Lord Harold Grey's bankrupt, he's as poor as Nance Olden, isn't that funny, but he's got the family jewels all right to have as long as he lives, nary a one can he sell though, for after his death they go to the next Lord Grey, so he makes them make a living for him, and as they can't go on and exhibit themselves, Lady Grey sports them and draws down two hundred dollars a week, yep, two hundred. But do you know it isn't the two hundred dollars a week that makes me envious till I'm sick, it's that rose diamond. If you could only see it, Mag, you'd sympathize with me and understand why my fingers just itched for it the first night I saw her come on. Upon my soul, Mag, the sight of it blazing on her neck dazzled me so that it shut out all the staring audience that first night and I even forgot to have stage fright. What's doped you, Olden? Obermiller asked when the curtain went down and we all hurried to the wings. I was in the black dress with the white bib daepern and I looked up at him still dazed by the shine of that diamond in my longing for it. You'd almost kill with your own hands for a diamond like that, Mag. Doped? Why? What didn't I do? I asked him. That's just it. He said, looking at me curiously, but I could feel his disappointment in me. You didn't do anything, not a blasted thing more than you were told to do, the world's full of supers that can do that. For just a minute I forgot the diamond. Then it's a mistake. You were wrong and I can't be an actress. He threw back his head before he answered, puffing a mouthful of smoke up at the ceiling as he did the night he caught me. The gesture itself seemed to remind him of what had made him think in the first place he could make an actress of me, for he laughed down at me and I saw he remembered. Well, he said, we'll wait and see. I was mistaken though sure enough about one thing that night. I looked up at him. You're a darn sight prettier than I thought you were. The gold brick you sold me isn't all. He put out his hand to touch my chin. I sidestepped and he turned laughing to the stage, but he called after me. Is a beauty success going to content you, Olden? Well, we'll wait and see. I draw back at him in his own throaty base. Oh, I was drunk, Mag, drunk with thinking about that diamond. I didn't care even to please Obermuller. I just wanted the feel of that diamond in my hand. I wanted it lying on my own neck, the lovely, cool, shining, rosy thing. It's like the sunrise, Mag, that beauty stone. It's just a tiny pool of water blushing. It's how to get it, how to get away with it. On what we'd get for that diamond, Tom and I, when his time is up, could live for all our lives and whoop it up besides. We could live in Paris where great grafters live and grafting pays, where if you've got wit in $50,000 and happen to be a darn sight prettier, you can just spin the world around your little finger. But do you know, even then, I couldn't bear to think of selling the pretty thing. It hurt me to think of anybody having it but just Nancy Olden. But I hadn't got it yet. Gray has a dressing room to herself, and on her table, which is a big box, open and down, just where the three-sided big mirror can multiply the jewels and make you want them three times as bad, her big Russia leather silver-mounted box lies open while she's dressing and undressing. Other times it's locked tight, and his lordship himself has it tight in his own right hand, or his lordship's man, Topham, has it just as tight. How to get that diamond? There was a hard nut for Nancy Olden's sharp teeth to crack. I only wanted that. Never say I'm greedy, Mag. Gray could keep all the rest of the things, the pigeon and rubies and pearls, the tiara all in diamonds, the chain of pearls and the blazing rings and the waist trimming all of emeralds and diamond stars, but that diamond, that huge rose diamond, I couldn't, I just couldn't let her have it. And that I didn't know the first step to take toward getting it, till Beryl Blackburn helped me out. She's one of the charities like me, a tall bleached blonde with a pretty pale face and gold gray eyes, and if you'd believe her, there's not a man in the audience afternoon or evening that isn't dead gone on her. Guess who's my latest? She said to me this afternoon while we four charities stood in the wings waiting. Topham, old Topham. It all got clear to me then in a minute. Topham, nothing, I sneered. Beryl big head, Topham thinks of only one thing. Milady's jewel box, don't you fool yourself. Oh, does he miss? Well, just to prove it, he let me try on the rose diamond last night, there. It's easy to say so, but I don't see the proof. He'd lose his job so quick it'd make his head spin if he did it. Not if he did, but if they knew he did, you'll not tell. Not me, why would I? I don't believe it and I wouldn't expect anybody else to. I don't believe you could get Topham to budge from his chair in Gray's dressing-room if you'd— What'll you bet? I'll bet you the biggest box of chocolate creams at Highler's. Done. I'll send for him tonight just before Gray and her lord come and you see. How'll I see? Where'll I be? Well, you be waiting in the little hall right of Gray's dressing-room at 7.30 tonight and you might as well bring the creams with you. Catch on, mag. At 7.30 in the evening I was waiting, but not in the little hall of Gray's dressing-room. I hadn't gone home at all after the afternoon performance. You know, we play at three and again at 8.30. I had just hidden me away till the rest were gone and as soon as the coast was clear I got into Gray's dressing-room, pushed aside the chintz curtains of the big box that makes her dressing-table and waited. I heard how the hours dragged. I hadn't had anything to eat since lunch and it got darker and darker in there and hot and close and cramped. I put in the time, much as I could, thinking of Tom. The very first thing I'd do after cashing in would be to get up to Sing Sing to see him. I'm crazy to see him. I'd tell him the news and see if he couldn't bribe a guard or plan some scheme with me to get out soon. Afraid. Me? What of? I'd tell me under that box I'd just give him the barrel story about the bet. How do you know they wouldn't believe it? Oh, I don't care. You've got to take chances, Magmonahan, if you go in for big things. And this was big. Huge. Do you know how much that diamond's worth? And do you know how to spend fifty thousand? I spent it all there, in the box, every penny of it. When I got tired spending money I dozed a bit and in my dreams spent it over again. And then I waked and tried to fancy new ways of getting rid of it, but my head ached and my back ached and my whole body was so strained and cramped that I was on the point of giving it all up when that blessed old Topham came in. He set the big box down with a bang that nearly cracked my head. He turned on the lights and stood whistling tommy Atkins, and then suddenly there came a soft call. Topham? Topham? I leaned back and bit my fingers till I knew I wouldn't shriek. The Englishman listened a minute. Then the call came again and Topham creaked to the door and out. And a twinkling I was out to, you bet. Mag, he hadn't opened the box at all. There it stood in the middle of the space, framed by the three glasses. I pulled at the lid, locked. I could have screamed with rage, but the sound of his step outside the door sobered me. He was coming back, and a frantic hurry I turned toward the window which I had unlocked when I came in four hours ago, but I hadn't time to make it. I heard the old fellow's hand on the door, and I tumbled back into the box in such a rush that the curtains were still waving when he came in. Slowly he began to place the jewels one by one and the order her ladyship puts them on. We charity girls had often watched him from the door. He never let one of us put a foot inside. He was method and order itself. He never changed the order in which he lifted the glittering things out, nor the places he put them back in. I put my hand up against the top of the box, tracing the spot where each piece would be lying. Think, Mag, just half an inch between me and quarter of a million. Oh, I was sore as I lay there, and I wasn't so cock sure either that I'd get out of it straight. I tried the barrel story lots of ways on myself, but somehow, every time I fancied myself telling it to Obermuller, it got tangled up and laid dumb and heavy inside of me. But at least it would be better to appear of my own will before the old Englishman than be discovered by Lord Gray and his lady. I had my fingers on the curtains, and in another second I'd been out when— Miss Barrow Blackburn's compliments, Mr. Topham, and would you step to the door, as there is something most important she wants to tell you? Oh, I loved every syllable that call-boy spoke. There was a giggle behind his voice, too. Old Topham was the butt of every joke. The first call, which had fooled me, must have been from some giddy girl who wanted to guy the old fellow. She had fooled me all right, but this—this one was the real article. There was a pause. Topham must be looking about to be sure things were safe. Then he creaked to the door and shut it carefully behind him. It only took a minute. But in that minute—in that minute, Mag, I had the rose diamond clutched safe in my fingers. I was on the top of the big trunk and out of the window. Oh, the feel of that beautiful thing in my hand. I'd have loved it if it hadn't been worth a penny, but as it was I adored it. I slipped the chain under my collar and the diamonds slid down my neck, and I felt it kiss on my skin. I flew down the black corridor, bumping into scenery and nearly tripping two stage carpenters. I heard Ginger, the callboy, ahead of me and dodged behind some properties just in time. He went whistling past, and I got to the stage door. I pulled it open tenderly, cautiously, and turned to shut it after me. And—and something held it open in spite of me. No, no, Mag, it wasn't a man—it was a memory. It rose up there and hit me right over the heart—the memory of Nancy Olden's happiness the first time she'd come in this very door, feeling that she actually had a right to use a stage—entrance—feeling that she belonged—she, Nancy, to this wonderland of the stage. You must never tell Tom, Mag, promise. He wouldn't see. He couldn't understand. I couldn't make him know what I felt any more than I'd dare tell him what I did. I shut the door. But not behind me. I shut it on the street, and—Mag, I shut forever another door, too—the old door that opens out on Crooked Street. With my hand on my heart, that was beating as though it would burst, I flew back again through the black corridor, through the wings and out to Obermuller's office. With both my hands I ripped open the neck of my dress, and pulling the chain with that great diamond hanging to it, I broke it with a tug and threw the whole thing down on the desk in front of him. For God's sake, I yelled, don't make it so easy for me to steal. I don't know what happened for a minute. I could see his face change half a dozen ways in as many seconds. He took it up in his fingers at last. It swung there at the end of the slender little broken chain like a great drop of shining water, blushing and sparkling and trembling. His hands trembled, too, and he looked up at last from the diamond to my face. It's worth at least 50,000, you know, valued at that. I didn't answer. He got up and came over to where I had thrown myself on a bench. What's the matter, olden? Don't I pay you enough? I want to see Tom, I begged. It's so long since he's up at in the country. Sing, sing. I nodded. You poor little devil. That finished me. I'm not used to being pitied. I sobbed and sobbed as though some dam had broken inside of me. You see, Mag, I knew in that minute that I'd been afraid, deathly afraid of Fred Obermiller's face when it's scornful and sarcastic and of his voice when it cuts the flesh of self-conceit off your very bones. And the contrast, well, it was too much for me. But something came quick to sober me. It was gray. She stormed in, followed by Lord Harold and Topham and half the company. The diamond, the rose diamond, she shrieked. It's gone, and the carpenters say that new girl, Olden, came flying from the direction of my dressing room. I'll hold you responsible. Hush. Obermiller lifted his hands and nodded over toward me. Olden, she squealed. Grab her, Topham. I'll bet she stole that diamond and she can't have got rid of it yet. Topham jumped toward me, but Obermiller stopped him. You'd win only half your bet, my lady, Obermiller said softly. She did get hold of the gray rose worth fifty thousand dollars in spite of all your precautions. The world seemed to fall away from me. I looked up at him. I couldn't believe he'd go back on me. And she brought it straight to me as I had asked her to and promised to raise her salary if she'd went out, for I knew that unless I proved to you it could be stolen. You'd never agree to hire a detective to watch those things, which will get us all into trouble someday. Here, scoot out of this. It's nearly time for your number. He passed the diamond over to her and they all left the office. So did I, but he held out his hand as I passed. It goes, that about a raise for you, Olden. Now earn it. Isn't he white mag, white clean through that big fellow Obermiller? End of Chapter 5. CHAPTER 6. I got into the train mag, the happiest girl in all the country. I had a big basket of things for Tom. I was got up in my Sunday best, for I wanted to make a hit with some fellow with a key up there who'd make things soft and easy for my Tommy. I had so much to tell him, I knew just how I'd take off every member of the company to amuse him. I had memorized every joke I'd heard since I'd got behind the curtain, not very hard for me. Things always had a way of sticking in my mind. I knew the newest songs in town and the choruses of all the old ones. I could show them the latest tricks with cards. I'd got those at first hand from Professor Howe-Wout. You know how great Tom is on tricks. I could explain the disappearing woman mystery and the mirror cabinet. I knew the clogged dance that DeWitt and Daniels do. I had pictures of the trained seals, the great elephant act, Madame Azel Picote doing her great tightrope dance, and the brothers Borodini in their pyramid tumbling. Yes, it was a whole vaudeville show with refreshments between the acts that I was taking up to Tom Dorgan. I don't care much for a lot of that truck. Funny isn't it, how you get to turn up your nose at the things you'd have given a finger for once upon a time. But Tom—oh, I'd got everything pat for him. My big, handsome Tom Dorgan in stripes, with his curls all shaved off—ooh. I'd got just so far in my thoughts sitting there in the train when I gave a shiver. I thought for a minute it was at the idea of my Tom with one of those bare, round convict heads on him that looked like fat skeleton faces. But it wasn't. It was, guess mag, more away. Both of us thought the same thing of each other for the first second that our eyes met. I could see that. He thought I was caught at last, and I thought he'd been sharp once too often. And mag, it would be hard to say which of us would have been happier if it had been the truth. Oh, to meet more away bounds sure enough for sing-sing. He got up and came over to me, smiling wickedly. He took the seat behind me and, leaning forward, said softly, Is Miss Omar engaged to read some invalid up at sing-sing? And for how long a term I should say engagement? I'd got through shivering by then. I was ready for him. I charmed and looked at him in that very polite, distant sort of way Gray uses in her act when the charity superintendent speaks to her. It's the only decent thing she does. Chances are that's how Lord Gray's mother looks at her. You know my sister, Mr.—Mr.— I asked humbly. He looked at me perplexed for just a second. Sister be hanged, he said at last. I know you, Nat, and I'm glad to my fingertips that you've got it in the neck in spite of all your smartness. You're altogether wrong, sir. I said very stately, but heard a bit, you know. I've often been taken from my sister, but gentlemen usually apologize when I explain to them. It's hard enough to have a sister who— I looked up at him tearfully with my chin a wobble with sorrow. She grinned. Liars should have good memories, he sneered. Miss Omar said she was an orphan, you remember, and had not a relative in the world. Did she say that? Did Nora say that? I exclaimed piteously. Oh, what a little liar she is! I suppose she thought it made her more interesting to be so alone, more appealing to kind-hearted gentlemen like yourself. I hope she wasn't ungrateful to you, too, as she was to that kind, Mr. Latimer, before he found her out. And she had such a good position there, too. I wanted to look at him—oh, I wanted to. But it was my role to sit there with downcast eyes, just the picture of holy grief. I was the good one. The good shocked sister, and though I wasn't a bit afraid of anything he could do to me, or any game he could put up, I earned to make him believe me. Just because he was so suspicious, so wickedly smart, so sure he was on. But his very silence sort of told me he almost believed, or that he was laying a trap. Well, you tell me, he said, how you, your sister, got Latimer to lie for? Mr. Latimer, lie! Oh, you don't know him. He expected a lady to read to him that very evening. He had never seen her, and when Nora walked into the garden—after getting a skirt somewhere—yes, the housekeepers, it happened to be her evening out, why he just naturally supposed Nora was Ms. Omar. Ah, then her name isn't Omar. What might it be? I'd rather not tell, if you don't mind. But when Latimer found out she had the diamonds, he did find out. She confessed to him, Nora's not really so bad a girl as— Very interesting, but it doesn't happen to be Latimer's version, and you say Latimer wouldn't lie. I got pale, but the paleness was on the inside of me. Think I was going to flinch before a chump like Morroway, even if I had walked straight into his trap? It isn't, I exclaimed. No. Latimer's note to Mrs. Kingdon said the diamonds were found in the bellboy's jacket the thief had left behind him. Well, it only shows what a bad habit lying is. Nora must have fibbed me for the pure pleasure of fibbing. I'll never dare to trust her again. Do you believe, then, that she didn't have anything to do with the hotel robbery? I do hope so. It's one less sin on her wicked head. It's hard having such a girl in the family. Oh, wasn't I grieved? He looked me straight in the eye. I looked at him. I was unutterably sad about that tough sister of mine, and I vow I looked holy, then, though I never did before and may never again. Well, I only saw her in the twilight. He said slowly, watching my face all the time. You two sisters are certainly miraculously alike. The train was slowing down, and I got up with my basket. I stood right before him. My full face turned toward him. Are we? I asked simply. Don't you think it's more the expression than anything else, and the voice? Nora's really much fairer than I am. Goodbye. He watched me as I went out. I felt his eyes on the back of my jacket, and I was tempted to turn at the door and make a face at him. But I knew something better and safer than that. I waited till the train was just pulling out, and then, standing below his window, I motioned to him to raise it. He did. I thought you were going to get out here, I called. Are you sure you don't belong in Sing Sing, Mr. Morroway? I can see his face yet, Mag, and every time I think of it it makes me nearly die of laughing. He had actually been fooled another time. It was worth the trip up there to make a guy of him once more. And whether it was or not, Mag, it was all I got after all. For would you believe Tom Dorgan would turn out such a sore head? He's kicked up such a row ever since he got there that it's the dark cell for him and solitary confinement. Think of it, for Tom. I begged, I bluffed, I cried, I coaxed, but many's the nance old and then has played her game against the rules of Sing Sing and Lost. They wouldn't even let me leave the things for him or give him a message from me. And back to the station I had to carry the basket and all the schemes I had to make old Tom Dorgan grin. All the way back I had him in my mind. He's a tiger, Tom, when he's roused. I could see him, shut up there by himself, with not a soul to talk to, with not a human eye to look into, with not a thing on earth to do. Tom, whose action itself, he never was much of a thinker, and I never saw him read even a newspaper. What would he do to kill the time? Can't you see him there at bay, back on his haunches, cursing and cursed, alone in the everlasting black silence? I saw nothing else. Wherever I turned my eyes that terrible picture was before me, and always it was just on the verge of becoming something else, something worse. He could throttle the world with his bare hands if it had but one neck in the mood he must be in now. It was when I couldn't bear it a moment longer that I set my mind to find something else to think of. I found it, Mag. Do you know what it was? It was just three words of Obermullers. Earn it now. After all, Miss Moynihan, this graft of honesty they all preach so much about, hasn't anything mysterious in it. All it is is putting your wits to work according to the rules of the game and not against them. I was driven to it. The thought of Big Tom crouching for a spring and the dark cell up yonder sent me whirling out into the thinking place, like the picture of the soul and the big book at Latimer's I read out of. And first thing you know, upon honor, Mag, it was as much fun planning how to earn it now as any lifting I ever schemed. It's getting the best of people that always charmed me, and here was a way to fool them according to law. So busy I was making it all up that the train pulled into the station before I knew it. I gave a last thought to that poor old hyena of a Tom, and then put him out of my mind. I had other fish to fry. Straight down to Mother Doughty I went with my basket. A fool girl mother on her way up to Sing Sing lost her basket and Nance Olden found it, it ought to be worth a good deal. She grinned. You couldn't make Old Doughty believe that the Lord himself wouldn't steal if he got a chance, and she knows the chances that come butting up against Nance Olden. Why did I lie to her? Not for practice, I assure you. She'd have beaten me down to the last scent if she thought it was mine. But she always thinks there'll be a fine for her in something that's stolen. So I let her think I'd stolen it in the railway station and we came to terms. And what she gave me I bought a wig. Mag, I want you some day when you can get off to come and see that wig. I shouldn't wonder but you'd recognize it. It's red, a very coarse hair, but a wonderful color. And so long it—yes, it might be your own, Mag Monaghan, it's so much like it. I went to the theater and got my charity rig, took it home, and sat for hours there just looking at them both. When evening came I was ready to earn it now. D.C. Obermauer had given me the whole day to be away, and neither gray nor the other three charities expected me back. I had to do it on the sly, you sassy Mag. Yes, it was partly because I loved to cheat, but more because I was bound to have my chance once whether anybody else enjoyed it or not. I came to the theater and my charity rig and the wig. It looked as if I'd slept in it, and it came down to the bedraggled hem of the skirt. All the way there I walked like you, Mag. Once when a newsboy grinned at me and shouted, Carrots! I grinned back, your own old cruelty grin, Mag. I vow I felt so much like you, as you used to be, that when I lurched out on the stage at last, stumbling over my shoelaces and trying to push the hair out of my eyes, you'd have sworn it was little Mag Monaghan I making her debut in the cruelty room. Oh, Mag, Mag, you darling Mag. Did you ever hear a whole house, a great big theater full of a peevish vaudeville audience, just rise at you, give one war of laughter they hadn't expected at all to give, and then settle down to giggle at every move you made? Girl alive, I just had them. They couldn't take their eyes off me. If I squirmed, they howled. If I stood on one foot, scratching the torn leg of my stalking with the other, you know, Mag, they yelled. If I grinned, they just roared. Oh, Mag, can't you see? Don't you understand? I was it. The center of the stage I carried round with me. It was just Nancy Olden, and for ten minutes Nancy had nothing to do but to play with him. Upon my life, Mag, it's just like stealing. The old graft exactly. It's so fascinating, so busy and risky, except that they play the game with you, and pay you and love you to fool them. When the curtain fell it was different, grays followed by the charities all clean and spick and span and not in it, not even on the edge of it, stormed up to Obermuller standing at the wings. I'll quit the show here and now, she squawked. It's a shame, a beastly shame. How dare you play me such a trick, friend Obermuller? I never was treated so in my life to have that dirty little wretch come tumbling on like that without even so much as you're telling me you'd made up all this new business for her. It's indecent, anyway. Why I lost my cue. There was a gap for a full minute. The whole act was such a ghastly failure that I— That you'd better go out now and make your prettiest bow, gray. Phew! Listen to the house roar. That's what I call applause. Go on now. She went. Me? I didn't say a word. I looked at Obermuller and—and I just did like this. Yes? Winked Magmonahan. I was so crazily happy I had to, didn't I? But do you know what he did? Do you know what he did? Well, I suppose I am screaming and the Troyans will put me out, but he just winked back. And then gray came trailing back into the wings and the shrieking and thumping and whistling out in front just went on and on and on and on. Um, I just listened and loved it, every thump of it, and I stood there like a demure little kitten, or more like Magmonahan after she'd had a good licking and was good and quiet. And I never so much as budged till Obermuller said, Well, Nance, you have earned it, the gall of you. But it only proves that Fred Obermuller never yet bought a gold brick. Only let me in on your racket next time. There go on, take it, it's yours. Oh, to have Fred Obermuller say things like that to you. He gave me a bit of a push. It was just a love pat. I stumbled out onto the stage. End of Chapter 6, Chapter 7 of In the Bishop's Carriage. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leanne Howlett. In the Bishop's Carriage by Miriam Michelson, Chapter 7. And that's why, Marguerite Demmonahan, I want you to buy in with the Madam here. Let them keep on calling it Troyans as much as they want, but you're to be a partner on the money I'll give you. If this fairy story lasts, it'll be your own mag, a sort of commission you get on my takeoff of you. But if anything happens to the world, if it should go crazy or get sane and not love Nancy Olden anymore, why, here'll be a place for me too. Does it look that way? Divel a bit, you croaker. It looks, it looks, listen, and I'll tell you how it looks. It looks as though Gray and the great Gray Rose Diamond and the three charities had all become a bit of background for Nancy Olden to play upon. It looks as though the audience likes the sound of my voice as much almost as I do myself. Anyway, as much as it does the sight of me. It looks as though the press, if you please, had discovered a new stage star, for down comes a little reporter to interview me, me, Nancy Olden. Think of that, Mag. I receive him in all my charity rig in an Obermuller's office, and he asks me silly questions and I tell him a lot of nonsense, but some truths too, about the cruelty. Fancy, he didn't know what the cruelty was. SPCC, he calls it, and all the time we talked, a long-haired German artist he had brought with him was sketching Nancy Olden in different poses. Isn't that the limit? What do you think Tom Dorgan had to say to see half a page of Nancy Olden in the X-ray? Wouldn't his eyes pop? Poor old Tom. No danger. They won't let him have the papers. My old Tommy. What is it, Mag? Oh, what was I saying? Yes. Yes. How it looks. Well, it looks as though the trust, yes, the big and mighty TT, short for theatrical trust, you innocent, had heard of that same Nancy Olden you read about in the papers. For one night last week, when I just come of and the house was yelling and shouting behind me, Obermuller meets me in the wings and trots me off to his private office. What for? I asked him on the way. You'll find out in a minute, come on. I pulled up my stocking and followed. You know, I wear it in that act without a garter and it's always coming down the way yours used to, Mag. And when it doesn't come down I pull it up, I'm so in the habit of doing it. A little bit of a man, bald-headed, with the dispeptic little black moustache turned down at the corners, watched me come in. He grinned at my make-up and then at me. Clever little girl, he says through his nose. How much do you stick Obermuller for? Clever little man, say I, bold as brass and through my own nose. One of your business. Hi, you olden. Roared Obermuller as though I'd run away and he was trying to get the bit from between my teeth. Answer the gentleman pritally. Don't you know a representative of the mighty TT when you see him? Can't you see the syndicate aureol about his noble brow? This gentleman nances the great and only Max Tossig. He humbleth the exalted and uplifteth the lowly. Or if there's more money in it he gives to him that hath and steals from him that hasn't, but would mighty well like to have. He has no conscience, no vows, no heart. But he has got ten and nerve and power to beat the band. In short and for all practical purposes for one in your profession, Nancy Olden, he's just God. Down on your knees and lick his boots. Trust God's wear boots, patent leathers, and thank him for permitting it, you lucky baggage. I looked at the little man. The angry red was just fading from the top of his coconut shaped bald head. You always were a fool, Obermuller, he said cordially, and you were always over fun of your low comedian jokes. If you had been so smart with your tongue you'd had more friends and not so many enemies in the heavenly syndicate, eh? Well I have lived without. You have lived but. But where do I expect to go when I die? Theatrical managers nance when they die as individuals go to heaven. They get into the trust. After that they just touch buttons. The trust does the rest. Bad ones, the kickers, the Fred Obermullers go to, a place where salaries cease from troubling and royalties are at rest. It's a slow place where, where in short there's nothing doing. And only one thing's done, the kicker. It's that place Mr. Tossick thinks I'm bound for, and it's that place he's come to rescue you from, from sheer goodness of heart and a wary eye for all there's in it. Sent him olden, for all the traffic will bear. I looked from one to the other. Obermuller big and savage underneath all his gay talk. I knew him well enough to see that. The little man, his mouth turned down at the corners and a sneer in his eye for the fellow that wasn't clever enough to get in with the push. You must not give the young woman the big head, Obermuller. Her own is big enough how bad as it is. I ain't prepared to make any startling offer to a little girl that's just barely got her nose above the wall. The slightest shake might knock her off altogether, or she mightn't have strength enough in herself to hold on, but we'll give her a chance. And because of what it may lead to if she works hard, because of the opportunities we can give her, there ain't so much in it in a money way as you might imagine. Obermuller didn't say anything. His own lips and his own eyes sneered now, and he winked openly at me, which made the little man hot. Blast it, he twanged. I mean it. If you've got any notion through my coming down to your dirty little joint that we've set our hearts on having the girl, just get busy thinking something else. She may be worth something to you, measured up against the dubs you've got, but to us—to you it's not so much you're not having her as my having her that—exactly—it ain't our policy to leave any doubtful cards in the enemy's hands. He can have the bad ones. He couldn't get the good ones. And the doubtful ones like this girl Olden—well, that's just where you're mistaken. Obermuller thrust his hands deep in his pockets and put out that square chin of his like the fighter he is. This girl Olden is anything but doubtful. She's a big card right now if she could be well handled, and the time isn't so far off when, if you get her, you people will be— Just how much is your interest in her worth? The little man sneered. Obermuller glared at him, and in the pause I murmured demurely. Only a six-year contract. Mag, you should have seen him jump, both of them. The little man with vexation, the big one with surprise. A contract. Me? Nance Olden. Why, Mag, you innocent of course I hadn't. Managers don't give six-year contracts to girl burglars who've never set foot on the stage. When the little man was gone, Obermuller cornered me. What's your game, Olden? He cried. You're too deep for me. I throw up my hands. Come. What have you got in that smart little head of yours? Are you holding out for higher stakes? Do you expect him to buy that great six-year contract and divvy the proceeds with me? Because he will, when once they get their eye on you, they'll have you, and to turn up your nose at their offer if in just the way to make them itch for you. But how the deuce did you find it out? And where do you get your nerve from, anyway? A little bigger like you to refuse an offer from the TT and sit hatching your schemes on your little old steam dollars a week? People have to be twice-steamed now, I suppose. All right, just as you say—I laughed—but why aren't you in the trust, Fred Obermuller? Why aren't you in society, Nance? Um, well, because society's prejudice against lifting, but the trust isn't. Do you know that's a great graft, Mr. Obermuller, lifting wholesale? Why don't you get in? Because the trust is a lot of sailors on a raft to keep their places by kicking off the drowning hands that clutch at it. Can you fancy a fellow like Tossig stooping down to help me tenderly on board to divide the pickings? No, but I can fancy you grappling with him till he'd be glad to take you on rather than be pulled off himself. You'd be in with the push, would you, olden, if you were managing? He asked with a grin. I'd be at the top, wherever that was. Then why the deuce didn't you jump at Tossig's offer? Were you really crafty enough? I am artiste, Monsher Obermuller. I gutter old like Mademoiselle Pecote, who dances on the wire. I must have about me those who are congenial. You monkey, he laughed. Then when Tossig comes to buy your contract, we'll tell him to go to thunder. He laughed. Say, Mag, that big fellow was like a boy when he's pleased. I guess that's what makes it such fun to please him. And I, who admired your business sagacity and holding off, Nance, he said. I thought you admired my take-off of Mademoiselle Pecote. Well? Well, why don't you make use of it? Take me round to the theatres and let me mimic all the swell-accurs and acresses. I've got more chance with you than with that trust gang. They wouldn't give me room to do my own stunt. They'd make me fit into theirs. But you—but me—you think you can wind me round your finger? Not yet. He chuckled. I thought I had him going. I saw Nance Olden spending her evenings at the big Broadway theatres when, just at that minute, Ginger, the call-boy, burst in with a note. Say, Mag, I wouldn't like to get that man Obermuller hopping mad at me, and Nancy Olden's no coward, either. But the way he gritted his teeth at that note and the devil in his eyes when he lifted them from it made me wonder how I'd ever dared be facetious with him. I got up to go. He'd forgotten me, but he looked up then. That was a great suggestion of yours, Olden, to put Lord Grey on to act himself. Great! This voice shook you so angry. Well, I snapped. I wasn't going to let him see that a big man raging could bluff Nance Olden. What did he mean? Why, just this. There was Lord Harold Grey, the real lord behind the scenes, bringing the lady who was really only a chorus girl to the show in his automobile, helping her dress like a maid, holding her box of jewels as he tagged after her like a big Newfoundland, smoking his one cigarette solemnly and admiringly while she was on the stage, poking after her like a tame bear. He's a funny fellow, that Lord Harold. He's a Tom Dorgan with the brains and the graft and the brute, too, Mag, washed out of him. A Tom Dorgan that's been kept dressed in swagger clothes all his life and living at top notch, a big, clean, handsome, stupid, good-natured, overgrown boy. Yes, I'm coming to it. When I'd seen him go tagging after her chippy ladieship behind the scenes long enough, I told Overmuller one day that it was absurd to send the mock lady out on the boards and keep the live lord hidden behind. He jumped at the idea and they rigged up a little act for the two, the lord and the lady. Grey was furious when she heard of it. They're making use of her lord in such a way. But Lord Harold just swallowed his big Adam's apple with a gulp or two and said, Upon honor, it's a blasted scheme, you know, but I'm jolly sure I'd make a bloody ass of myself, I can't act, you know. The nanny, you know he thinks Grey really can. But Overmuller explained to him that he needn't act, just be himself out behind the wings and low, Lord Harold was charmed. And Grey? Why she gave in at last, pretended to anyway, sliding out of the charity sketch and rehearsing the thing with him and all that. And do you know what she did, Mag? Nance Olden may be pretty mean, but she wouldn't do a trick like that. She waited till ten minutes before time for the thing to be put on and then through a fit. She's so ill, her delicate ladyship, so ill she just can't go on this evening. Wonder how long she thinks such an excuse will keep Lord Harold off when I want him on, growled Overmuller, throwing her note over to me, he'd have liked to throw it at me if it had been heavy enough to hurt, he was so thumping mad. You see, there it was on the program. The clever sketch entitled, Theatrical Aristocracy, The Duke of Portmanteau, Lord Harold Grey, The Duchess, Lady Grey. The celebrated Grey jewels, including the Great Rose Diamond, will be worn by Lady Grey in this number. No wonder Overmuller was raging. I looked at him. You don't like to tackle a fellow like that when he's dancing hot, and yet you ache to help him and, yes, yourself. Lord Harold's here yet, and the jewels? I asked. He gave a short nod. He was thinking, but so was I. Then all he wants is a lady? That's all, he said sarcastically. Well, what's the matter with me? He gasped. There's nothing the matter with your nerve, Olden. Thank you so much. It was the way Grey says it when she tries to have an English accent. Dress me up, Fred Overmuller, and Grey's new silk gown on the Grey jewels, and you'd never. I'd never set eyes on you again. You'd never know if you were in the audience that it wasn't Grey herself. I can take her off to the life, and if the prompter'll stand by. He looked at me for a full minute. Try it, Olden, he said. I did. I flew to Grey's dressing-room. She'd gone home deathly ill, of course. They gave me the best seamstress in the place. She let out the waist a bit and pulled over the lace to cover it. I got into that mass of silk and lace, oh, silk on silk and nance Olden inside. Barrow blackburn did my hair, and Grace Weston put on my slippers. Top of themself hung me with those gorgeous shining diamonds and pearls and emeralds, till I felt like an idol loaded with booty. There were so many standing round me, rigging me up, that I didn't get a glimpse of the mirror till the second before Ginger called me. But in that second, in that second mag monohan, I saw a fairy with blazing cheeks and shining eyes, with a diamond coronet in her brown hair, puffed high in pearls on her bare neck and arms, and emeralds over the waist, and rubies and pearls on her fingers, and sprays of diamonds like frost on the lace of her skirt, and diamond buckles on her very slippers, and the rose diamond like a sun out shining all the rest. And mag it was me. How did it go? Well, wouldn't it make you think you were a lady, sure enough, if you couldn't move without that lace train billowing after you, without being dazzled with diamond shine, without a truly lord tagging after you? He kept his head, Lord Harold, did, even if it is a mutton head. That helped me at first. He was so cold, so stupid, so slow, so good tempered, so just himself, and after the first plunge. I tell you, mag monohan, there's one thing that's stronger than wine to a woman. It's being beautiful. Oh, and I was beautiful. I knew it before I got that quick hush with the full applause after it. And because I was beautiful, I got saucy, and then calm, and then I caught Fred Obamuller's voice. He had taken the book from the prompter and stood there himself, and after that it was easy sailing. He was there yet when the act was over, and I trailed out, followed by my lord. He let the prompt book fall from his hands and reached them both out to me. I furted my jeweled fan at him and swept him a courtesy. Cool? No, I wasn't, not a bit of it. He was daffy with the side of me and all that glory, and I knew it. Nance? He whispered. You wonderful girl, if I didn't know about that little thief up at the Bronsonia, I'd marry you alive just for the fun of piling pretty things on you. The deuce you would? I sailed past him with top of my lord in my wake. They didn't leave me till they stripped me clean. I felt like a Christmas tree the day after. But somehow I didn't care. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of In the Bishop's Carriage. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leanne Howlett. In the Bishop's Carriage by Miriam Michelson. Chapter 8. Is that you, Mag? Well, it's about time you came home to look after me. Find chaperone you make, Miss Monahan. Why didn't I tell you the very day we took this flat what a chaperone was, and that you'd have to be mine? Imagine Nance olden without a chaperone. Shocking. No, tisn't late. Sit down, Maggie, there, and let me get the stool and talk to you. Think of us, too. Cruelty girls, both of us. Two mangy kittens deserted by the old cats in a city's alleys and left mewing with cold and hunger and dirt out in the wet. Think of us, too, in our own flat, Mag. I say it makes me proud of us. There are times when I look at every stick of furniture we own, and I try to pretend to at all that I'm used to a decent roof over my head, and a dining room, kitchen, parlor, bedroom, and bath. Oh, and I forgot the telephone, the other tenant left here, till it's leases up. But at other times, I stand here in the middle of it and cry out to it in my heart. Look at me, Nance olden, a householder, a rent payer, the head of the family, even if it's only a family of two and the other one, Mag. Look at me with my name in the directory, a paying milk bills and meat bills and bread bills. Look at me with a place of my own, where nobody's rights greater than my own, where no one has a right but me and Mag, a place where there's nothing to hide from the police. There's the rub, Mag, as Hamlet says. I went to see it the other night so that I could take off the ophelia. She used to be a good mimic herself before she tried to be a leading lady. It spoils you, this sense of safeness that goes with the honesty graft. You lose the quickness of the hunter and the nerve of the hunted. And worse, you lose your taste for the old risky life. You grow proud and fat and you love every stick in the dear quiet little place that's your home, your own home. You love it so that you'd be ashamed to sneak around where it could see you, you who'd always walked upright before it with the step of the mistress, with nothing in the world to be ashamed of, nothing to prevent your staring each honest dishpan in the face. And Mag, you try, if you're me, to fit Tom Dorgan in here. Tom Dorgan in stripes and savage sulks still, all these months, kept away from the world, even the world behind bars. Mag, you don't you wish Tom was a ventriloquist or an acrobat or, but this isn't what I had to tell you. Do you know what a society entertainer is, Miss Monahan? No. Well, look at me. Yes, I'm one. Miss Nancy Olden, whose services are worth $50 a night, at least they were one night. Ginger brought me the note that made me a society entertainer. It was from a Mrs. Paul B. Gates, who had been charmed by your clever impersonations, Miss Olden, and right to know if you have the leisure to entertain some friends at my house on Thursday of this week. Had I the leisure? Well, rather. I showed the note to Gray just to make her jealous. Oh yes, she goes on all right in the act with Lord Harold every night, catch her letting me wear those things of hers twice. Well, she just turned up her nose. Of course she won't accept, she said. Of course I will. Oh, I only thought you'd feel as I should about appearing before a lot of snobs who'll treat you like a servant and who'll do nothing of the sort and who'll pay you well for it, put in Obermuller. He had come up and was reading the note I had handed to him. You just say yes, Nance, he went on after Gray had bounced off to her dressing room. It isn't such a bad graft and this is just between us too, mind. That little beggar Tossack has begun his trick since you turned his offer down. They can make things hot for me and if they do, it won't be so bad for you to go in for this sort of thing unless you go over to the trust. I shook my head. Well, this thing will be an ad for you besides if the papers can be got to notice it. Their coy with their notices can found them since Tossack let them know that big trust dads don't appear in the same papers that boom, antitrust shows. How long are you going to stand it, Mr. O? Just as long as I can't help myself, not a minute longer. There ought to be a way, some way. Yes, there ought, but there isn't. They've got things down to a fine point and the fellow they don't fear has got to fear them. I'll put your number early tonight so that you can get off by nine. Good luck, Nance. At nine then, behold Nancy Olden in her white muslin dress, long sleeved and high necked and just to her shoe tops with a big white muslin sash around her waist. Oh, she's no baby, is Nance, but she looks like one in this rig with her short hair or rather like a school girl, which makes the stunts she does in mimicking the corkers of the profession all the more surprising. We're just a little party, said Mrs. Paul Gates coming into the bedroom where I was taking off my wraps. And I'm so glad you could come for my principal guest, Mr. Latimer, as an invalid who used to love the theaters, but hasn't been to one since his attack many years ago. I count on your giving him, in a way, a condensed history in action of what is going on on the stage. I told her I would, but I didn't just know what I was saying. Think of Latimer there, Maggie, and think of our last meeting. It made me tremble. Not that I fancy, for a moment, he'd betray me. The man that helps you twice don't hurt you the third time. No, it wasn't that. It was only that I longed to do well, well before him so that. And then I found myself in an alcove off the parlors, separated from them by heavy curtains. It was such a pretty little red bower. Right behind me was the red of the Turkish drapery of a cozy corner, and just as I took my place under the great chandelier, the servants pulled the curtains apart and the lights went out in the parlors. And that minute I got it, Mag. Yes, stage fright. Got it bad. I suppose it was coming to me, but lordy, I hadn't ever known before what it was. I could see the black of the men's clothes and the long parlors in front of me and the white of the women's necks and arms. There were soft ends of talk trailing after the first silence and everything was so strange that I seemed to hear two men's voices, which sounded familiar. Latimer's silken voice and another, a heavy coarse bass that was the last to be quieted. I fancy that when that last voice should stop, I could begin, but all at once my mind seemed to turn a somersault. And instead of looking out upon them, I seemed to be looking in on myself to see a white-faced little girl in a white dress, standing alone under a blaze of light and a glare of red, gazing fearfully at this queer new audience. Fail, me, not Nancy Maggie. I just took me by the shoulders. Nancy old and you little thief, I cried to me inside of me. How dare you? I'd rather you'd steal the silver on this woman's dressing table than cheat her out of what she expects and what's coming to her. Nance really didn't dare, so she began. The first one was bad. I gave him deuces, Francesca. You've never heard the wailing music in that woman's voice when she says. There is no escape, Smaragdi. You have said it. The shadow was a glass to me and God lets me be lost. I gave them deuces just to show them how swell I was myself, which shows what a nanny I was. The thing the world loves is the opposite of what it is. The pat pat pat of their gloves came in to me when I got through. They were too polite to hiss, but it wasn't necessary. I was hissing myself. Inside of me there was a long, nasty hiss. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to be a failure with Latimer listening, though out there in that queer half light I couldn't see him at all, but could only make out the couch where I knew he must be lying. I just jumped into something else to retrieve myself. I can do Carter's douberry to the Queen's taste, Maggie. That rotten voice of hers, like Mother Doubdy's, the stronger insurer. That rocky old face pretending to look young and beautiful inside that talented red hair of hers. That whining, Denny, Denny, she squawks out every other minute. Oh, I can do douberry all right. They thought I could too, those black and white shadows out there on the other side of the velvet curtains, but I cared less for what they thought than for the fact that I had drowned that sputtering hiss inside of me and that Latimer was among them. I gave them Warfield then. I was always good at taking off the sheenies in the alley behind the cruelty, remember? I gave them that little pinch-nosed mod-atoms and dry, corking little Mrs. Fisk and Henry Miller when he smooths down his white reaches lovingly and sings sally in our alley and strutting old man's field and say, isn't it funny, Mag, that I've seen them all and know all they can do? They've been my college education, that crowd. Not a bad one, either, when you come to think of what I wanted from it. They pulled the curtains down at the end and I went back to the bedroom. I had my hat and jack-a-dome and Mrs. Gates and some of the younger ladies came to see me there, but I caught no glimpse of Latimer. You'd think, wouldn't you, that he'd have made an opportunity to say just one nice word to me in that easy, soft voice of his. I tried to believe that perhaps he hadn't really seen me, lying down as he must've been, or that he hadn't recognized me, but I knew that I couldn't make myself believe that and the lack of just that word from him spoiled all my satisfaction with myself and I walked out with Mrs. Gates through the hall and past the dining room, feeling as heard as though I deserved that a man like Latimer should notice me. The dining room was all lighted but empty. The colored shaded candlesticks glowing down on the cut glass and silver, on delicate china and flowers. The ladies and gentlemen hadn't come out to supper yet. At least only one was there. He was standing with his back to me before the sideboard, pouring out a glass of something from a decanter. He turned at the rustle of my starch skirt and as I passed the door he saw me. I saw him too and hurried away. Yes, I knew him. Just you wait. I got home here earlier than I expected and I just got off my hat and jacket and put away that snug little check when there came a ring at the bell. I thought it was you, Mag, that you'd forgotten your key. I was so sure of it that I pulled the door open wide with a flourish and admitted Edward. Yes, Edward, husband of the Dowager. The same red-faced, big-necked old fellow, husky voice with whiskey now, just as he was before. He must have been keeping it up steadily ever since the day out in the country when Tom lifted his watch. It'll take more than one lost watch to cure Edward. I followed you home, Miss Murison, he said, grabbing me by the hand and pushing the door closed behind him. Or is it Miss Murison? What is your stage name and which a real one? And have you really learned to remember it? For my part any old name will smell as sweet now that I'm close to the rose. I jerked my hand away from him. I didn't ask you to call. I said, haughty as the Dowager herself was when first I saw her in her gorgeous power, the bishop's card in her hand. No, I noticed that, he roared jovially. You skinned out the front door the moment you saw me. All that was left to me was to skin after. Why? Why? He slapped his leg as though he'd heard the best joke in the world. To renew our acquaintance, of course, to ask you if you wouldn't like me to buy you a red coat and hat like the one you left behind you that day over in Philadelphia when you cut your visit so short. To insist upon my privilege of relationship. To call that wink you gave me in the hall that day, you little devil. Now don't look at me like that. I say, let's be friends, won't you? Not for a red coat trim with chinchilla, I cried. He got between me and the door. Price has gone up, he inquired pleasantly. Who's bullying the stock? Never you mind so long as his name isn't Ramsay. But why shouldn't his name be Ramsay? He cooed. Just because it isn't, I'm expecting a friend. Hadn't you better go home to Mrs. Dowager Diamonds? Bully, is that what you call her? No, I'll stay and meet your friend. Better not. Oh, I'm not afraid. Does he know as much about you as I do? More. About your weakness for other girls' coats. Yes. You do know it all, don't you? And yet you care for me, Maggie Monaghan? I retreated before I'm into the dining-room. What in the world to do to get rid of him? I think you'd better go home, Mr. Ramsay, I said again decidedly. If you don't, I'll have to call the janitor to put you out. Call, sweetheart. He'll put you out with me, for I'll tell him a thing or two about you and we'll go and find a better place than this. Stock can't be quoted so high after all if this is the best prospectus your friend can put up. Why don't you call? I looked at him. I was thinking. Well, he demanded. I've changed my mind. Oh, Mag, Mag, did you ever see the man, ugly as a cannibal he may be and old as the cannibal's great-grandfather that couldn't be persuaded he was a lady-killer? His manner changed altogether. He plumped down on the lounge and padded the place beside him invitingly, giving me a wink that was deadly. But Mrs. Dowager, I exclaimed coquettishly. Oh, that's all right, little one. She hasn't even missed me yet. When she's playing bridge she forgets even to be jealous. Playing bridge, I murmured sweetly, way off in Philadelphia while you, you naughty man. Oh, he loved that. Not so naughty as, as I'd like to be. He bellowed heavily witty. And she isn't way off in Philadelphia either. She's just round the corner at Mrs. Gates and what's the matter? Nothing, nothing. Did she recognize me? Oh, that's what scared you, is it? She didn't recognize you. Neither did I till I got that second glimpse of you with your hat and jacket on. But even if she had, ho, ho, ho, I say, do you know you couldn't convince the Bishop and Henrietta if you'd talked till doomsday that that red coat and hat we advertised weren't taken by a little girl that was daffy? Fact, I swear it. They admit you took the coat, you little witch. But it was when you were out of your mind, of course, of course. The very fact that she left the coat behind her and took nothing else from the house shows a mind diseased, insisted Henrietta. Of course, of course. And you're coming for no reason at all to your house, says the Bishop. Say, what was the reason? Maggie, I'll tell you a hard thing. It isn't when people think worse of you than you are, but better that you feel most uncomfortable. I got pale and sick inside of me at the thought of my poor little Bishop. I loved him for believing me straight and, I've been dying of curiosity to know what was in your wise little head that day, he went on. Oh, it was wise, all right. That wink you gave me was perfectly sane. There was method in that madness of yours. I will tell you, Mr. Ramsey, I said sweetly, at supper. Supper? Yes, the supper you're going to get for me. His bellowing laughter filled the place. Maggie, our little flat and our few things don't go well with sounds like that. Oh, you're all alike, you women, he roared. All right, supper it is. Where shall we go, rectors? I pouted. It's so much more cozy right here, I said. I'll tell a phone. There's brofies just round the corner and they send in the loveliest things. Oh, they do. Well, tell them to begin sending. I thought he'd follow me out in the hall to the phone, but he was having some trouble in pulling out his purse. To count out his money, I suppose. I got central and asked for the number. Oh yes, I knew it all right. I had called up that same number once already today. Brofies? Why, Maggie Monahan, you ought to know there's no brofies, at least none that I ever heard about. With my hand over the mouthpiece so that nobody heard but Edward, I ordered a supper fit for a king or a chorus girl. What didn't I order? Champagne, broiled lobster, crab meat, stuffed fermentos, kersh coffee, everything I'd ever heard Barrel Blackburn tell about. Say, say, interrupted Edward coming out after me. That's enough of that stuff. Tell him to send in a scotch and soda and what? For at that moment the connection was made and I cut in sweetly with Mrs. Edward Ramsey, just a minute. Mag, you should have seen the man's face. It was red, it was white, it was furious, it was frightened. I put my hand a moment over the mouthpiece and turned on him then. I've got her on the phone at Mrs. Gates' house. Shall I tell your wife where you are, Edward? Just a moment, Mrs. Ramsey, hold the wire. Someone wants to speak with you. You little devil. His voice was thick with rage. Yes, you called me that some time ago, but not in that tone. Quick now, the door, or... Waiting, Mrs. Ramsey. He moved toward the door. How I know you won't tell her when I'm gone, he growled. Merely by my saying that I won't, I answered curtly. You're in no position to dictate terms. I am. But I could, without leaving the phone, latched the chain on the door behind him, leaving it half open, so he must have heard the rest. Yes, Mrs. Ramsey, waiting. I croaked like the driest kind of hello, girl. I was mistaken. It was a message left to be delivered to you, not someone wanting to speak with you. Who am I? Why, this is central. Here is the message. We'll be with you in half an hour, signed Edward. Yes, that's right. Thank you, good night. I hung up, gave the door a touch that shut it in his face, and went back into the dining room to throw open the windows. The place smelled of alcohol. The moral atmosphere left behind by that bad old man sickened me. I leaned out and looked at the stars, and tried to think of something sweet and wholesome and strengthening. Ah, Nance, I cried to myself with a sob. I had pretended to take it lightly enough when he was here, but now, if you had heard of a girl who, like yourself this evening, unexpectedly met two men she had known, and the good man ignored her and the bad one followed her. Oh, Nancy, what sort of girl would you think she was at heart? What sort of hope could you imagine her treasuring for her own future? And what sort of significance would you attach to? And just then the bell rang again. This time I was sure it was you. And oh, Maggie, I ran to the door eager for the touch of your hand and the look in your eyes. I was afraid to be alone with my own thoughts. I was afraid of the conclusion to which they were leading me. Maggie, if ever a girl needed comfort and encouragement and heartening, I did then. And I got it, dear. For there was a man at the door with a great basket of azaleas, pale pink earth stars they are, the sweet innocent things, and a letter for me. Here it is, let me read it to you. My dear Miss Omar, once on a time there was a luckless pot marred in the making that had the luck to be of service to a pipkin. It was a saucy pipkin, though a very winning one, and it had all the health and strength the poor pot lacked, physically. Morally, morally that young pipkin was in a most unwholesome condition. Already its fair, smooth surface was scratched and fouled. It was unmindful of the treasure of good it contained and its responsibility to keep that good intact. And it seemed destined to crash itself to pieces among pots of baser metal. What the luckless pot did was little, being ignorant of the art by which diamonds may be attained easily and honestly, but it gave the little pipkin a chance. What the pipkin did with that chance the pot learned tonight, with such pleasure and satisfaction as made it impossible for him not to share it with her. So while he sent Burnett out to the conservatory to cut his alias, he wrote her a note to try to convey to her what he felt when, in that nicely polished, neatly decorated and self-respecting vessel on exhibition in Mrs. Gates's red room, he recognized the poor little pipkin of other days. The pot, as you know, was a sort of stranded bit of clay that had never filled the use for which pots are created. He had little human to interest him. The fate of the pipkin, therefore, he had often pondered on. And in spite of improbabilities, had had faith in a certain quality of brave sincerity the little thing showed, a quality that shown through acquired faults like a star in a murky sky. This justification of his faith in the pipkin may seem a small matter to make so much of. And yet the pot, that sleeps not well a night, says as the case with damaged pots, will take to bed with him tonight a pretty pleasant thought due just to this. But do not think the pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been tempted to mistake the pipkin for a stately more pretentious vessel. A vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. Know the pipkin is a pipkin made of common clay, even though it has the uncommon sweetness and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay, and fashioned for those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes from the potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow. O pretty little pipkin, thank the potter, who made you as you are, as you will be, a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering to the human needs of them. For you be sure, the potter's a good fellow, and will all be well. For the pot, he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share, to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a useful vessel, whether he shall continue to be merely the same old luckless pot, or whether he shall return at all, O pipkin, does not matter much. But it has been well that, before we, too, behind the veil had passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory. Lattimer. O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him how sorely the pipkin needed the pot's letter. End of Chapter 8. CHAPTER IX. It's all come so quick, Maggie, and it was over so soon that I hardly remembered the beginning. Nobody on earth could have expected it less than I, when I came off in the afternoon. I don't know what I was thinking of as I came into my dressing room, that used to be gray's. The side of him seemed to cut me off from myself as with a knife. But it wasn't of him. It may have been that I was chuckling to myself at the thought of Nancy Olden with the dressing room all to herself. I can't ever quite get used to that, you know, though I sail around there with all the heirs of the leading lady. Sometimes I see a twinkle in Fred Obermuller's eye when I catch him watching me, and goodness knows he's been glum enough of late. But it wasn't. Yes, I'm going to tell you, but it's rattled me a bit, Maggie. I'm so, so sorry and a little, oh, just a little, little bit glad. I'd slam the door behind me, the old place is out of repair, and the door won't shut except with a bang. And I'd just squatted down on the floor to unbutton my high shoes when I noticed the chintz curtains in front of the high dressing-box waiver. They must have moved just like that when I was behind the months, it seems, years ago. But you see, Topham had never served in apprenticeship behind curtains, so he didn't suspect. Lordy Nancy, I laugh to myself, someone thinks you've got a rose diamond in—and at that moment he parted the curtains and came out. Yes, Tom. Tom Dorgan. My heart came beating up to my throat, and then, just as I thought I should choke, it slid down to my boots, sickening me. I didn't say a word. I sat there, my foot in my lap, staring at him. Oh, Maggie girl, it isn't good to get your first glimpse after all these months of the man you love crouched like a big bull in a small space, poking as close cropped black head out like a turtle that's not sure something won't be thrown at it, and then dragging his big bulk out and standing over you. He used to be trim, Tom, and taut, but in those shapeless things, the old trousers, the dirty white shirt, and the vest too big for him. Well, he said, why don't you say something? Tom's voice. Maggie, do you remember the merry Irish boy's voice, with its chuckles like a brook girdling as it runs? No, it isn't the same voice. It's changed, Maggie. It's heavyened, and coarse, and brutal. That's what it is. It sounds like the naut, like Nance. What in hells? I think I'm frightened, Tom. Oh, the ladyfied airs of her. Ain't you going to faint, Miss Olden? I got up. Oh, no, sit down, Tom. Tell me about it. How did you get here? He went to the door, opened it a bit, and looked out cautiously. Maggie, Maggie, it hurt me that. Why do you suppose? You sure nobody'll come in? He asked. I turned the key in the lock, forgetting that it didn't really lock. Oh, yes, I'm sure. I said, why? Why? You have got slow. Because I didn't say goodbye to them fellows up at the pen, and oh, you've escaped. That's what? First jailbreak in 15 years. What do you think of your Tommy, old girl, eh? Ain't he the gamest? Ain't you proud of him? My God, Mag, proud of him. He didn't know. He couldn't see himself. He shut in like a wild beast couldn't see what this year had done for him. Oh, the change, the change in him. My boy Tommy, with the gay, gallous manner, and the pretty jolly brogue, and the laughing mouth under his brown mustache. And this man, his face is old, Mag, old, oh, and hard, and tough, cheap and tough. There's something in his eyes now, and about his shaven mouth. Oh, Maggie, Maggie. Look here, Nance. He caught me by the shoulders, knocking up my chin so that he could look down squarely at me. What's your graft? What's it to be between us? What have you been doing all this time? Out with it, I want to know. I shook myself free and faced him. I've been, Tom Dorgan, I've been to hear the greatest actors and actresses in the world say and do the finest things in the world. I've watched princesses and kings, even if they're only stage ones. I've read a new book every night, a great picture book, in which the pictures move and speak. That's the stage, Tom Dorgan. Much of it wasn't true, but a girl who's been brought up by the cruelty doesn't have to be told what's true and what's false. I've met these people and lived with them, as one does who thinks the same thoughts and feels what others feel. I know the world now, Tom Dorgan, the real world of men and women, not the little world of crooks, nor yet the littler one of fairy stories. I've got a glimpse, too, of that other world, where all the scheming and lying and cheating has changed as if by magic and to something that deceives all right but doesn't hurt. It's the world of art and artists, Tom Dorgan, where people paint their lies or write them or act them, where they lift money all right from men's pockets, but lift their souls and their lives, too, away from the things that trouble and bore and degrade. You needn't sneer. It's made a different nance out of me, Tom Dorgan. And oh, but I'm sorry for the pert little beggar we both knew that lied and stole and hid and ran and sculpted. She was like a poor little ignorant traveler in a great country where she'd sized up the world from the few full crooks she was thrown in with. She, ah, cut it. Tom, doesn't it mean anything to you? Can't it mean lots to both of us now that cut it, I tell you? Think I killed one guard and beat the other till I broke every bone in his body to come here and listen to such guff? You've been having a high old time, eh? And you never give a thought to me up there. I might have rotted in that black hole for all you'd care. You don't. I did, Tom. I did. I was shivering at the name, but I couldn't bear his thinking that way of me. I went up once, but they wouldn't let me see you. I wrote you, but they sent back the letters. Mag went up, too, but had to come back. And that time I brought you my voice trailed off. In that minute I saw myself on the way up to Sing-Sing with the basket and all my hopes and all my schemes for amusing him. And this is what I'd have seen if they'd let me in, this big gruff, murdering beast. Oh, yes, yes, beast is what he is. And it didn't make him look at less that he believed me and began to think of me in a different way. I thought you wouldn't go back on a fellow, Nance. That's why I come straight to you. It was my game to have you hide me for a day or two, till you could make a strike somewhere and we'd light out together. How are you fixed? Pretty smart, eh? You look at my girl. You look my eye, Nance. You look good enough to eat, and I'm hungry for you. Maggie, if I'd had to die for it, I couldn't have moved then. You'd think a man would know when the woman he's holding in his arms is fainting, sick at the touch of him. A woman would. It wasn't my Tom that I'd known that I'd worked with and played with. And it was a great brute whose mouth, who had no eyes, no ears, no senses. But he laughed when I broke away from him at last. He laughed. And I knew then I'd have to tell him straight in words. Tom, I gasped. You can have all I've got. And it's plenty to get you out of the way. But you can't have me anymore. That's done. Oh, the beast in his face. They must have looked like that when the guard got his last glimpse of it. You're kidding me? He growled. I shook my head. Then he ripped it out, said the worst he could, and ended with a curse. The blood boiled in me. The old Nance never stood that. She used to sneer at other women who did. Get out of here. I cried. Go, go, Tom Dorgan. I'll send every cent I've got to you to mother doughties within two hours. But don't you dare. Don't you dare, you she-devil. Just make up your mind and drop these new fangled heirs and mighty quick. I tell you you'll come with me because I need you, and I want you, and I want you now. And I'll keep you one once I get you again. We'll hang together. No more of this one-sided layout for me, where you get all the soft and it's me for the hard. You belong to me. Yes, you do. Just think back a bit, Nance olden, and remember the kind of customer I am. If you forgot, just let me remind you that what I know would put you behind bars, my lady, and it shall I swear if I've got to go to the chair for it. Tom. It was Tom talking that way to me. I couldn't bear it. I made a rush for the door. He got there, too, and catching me by the shoulder he lifted his fist. But it never fell, Mag. I think I could kill a man who struck me. But just as I shut my eyes and shivered away from him, while I waited for the blow, a knock came at the door and Fred Obermiller walked in. Eh? Oh, excuse me. I didn't know there was anybody else. Nance, your face is ghastly. What's up? He said sharply. He looked from me to Tom. Tom, standing off there, ready to spring on him, to dart past him, to fly out of the window, ready for anything, only waiting to know what the thing was to be. My senses came back to me then. The sight of Obermiller, with those keen quick eyes behind his glasses, his strong, square chin and the whole poise of his head and body that makes men wait to hear what he has to say. The knowledge that that man was my friend, mine, Nancy Olden's, lifted me out of the mud I'd sunk back in and put my feet again on the level with his. Tom, I said slowly, Mr. Obermiller is a friend of mine. No, listen. What we've been talking about is settled. Don't bring it up again. It doesn't interest him, and it can't change me. I swear to you it can't. Nothing can. I'm going to ask Mr. Obermiller to help you without telling him just what the scrape is, and I'm going to be sure that he'll do it just because he— Because you've taken up with him, have you? Tom shouted savagely. Because she's your— Tom, I cried. Tom, oh yes, now I remember. Obermiller got between us as he spoke. You're a friend up in the country that you went to see and couldn't. Not a very good looker, your friend, Nance. But farming, I suppose, Mr. Tom, plays the deuce with one's looks. And another thing it does, it makes a man forget sometimes just how to behave in town. I'll be charmed, Mr. Tom, to oblige a friend of Miss Olden's, but I must insist that he does not talk like a farmer. He was quite close to Tom when he finished, and Tom was glaring up at him. And Mag, I didn't know which one I was most afraid for. Don't you look at me that way, Mag Monahan, and don't you dare to guess anything. If you think, growled Tom, then I'm going to let you get off with the girl, you're mighty— Now I've told you not to say that. The reason I'll do the thing she's going to ask of me, if that's what I think it is, is because this girl's a plucky little creature with a soul big enough to lift her out of the muck you probably helped her into. It's because she's got brains, talent, and a heart. It's because—well, it's because I feel like it and she deserves a friend. You don't know what she is. It was a snarl from Tom. You don't. Oh, yes, I do, you cur. I know what she was, too, and I even know what she will be, but that doesn't concern you. The hell it don't. Obermuller turned his back on him. I was dumb and still. Tom Dorgan had struck me after all. What is it you want me to do, Nance? Obermuller asked. Get him away on a steamer, quick, I murmured. I couldn't look him in the face. Without asking why or what his name is. He turned to Tom. Well, I won't go. Not without her. Because you're so fond of her, eh? So fond your first thought on quitting the country was to come here to get her in trouble. If you've been traced— Ah, you wouldn't like that, eh? Sneered Tom. Would you? Well, I've had my share of it, and she ain't. Still, I—just what would it be worth to you to have me out of the way? Oh, Tom, Tom, I cried. But Obermuller got in front of me. It would be worth exactly one dollar and seventy-five cents. I think it will amount to about that for cab hire. I guess the cars aren't any too safe for you, or it might be less. It may amount to something more before I get you shipped before the mast on the first foreign-bound boat. But what's more important? He added, bringing his fists down with a mighty thump on the table. You have just ten seconds to make up your mind. At the end of that time I'll ring for the police. I went down to the boat to see it sail, Mag, at seven this morning. No, not to say good-bye to him. He didn't know I was there. It was to say good-bye to my old Tommy, the one I loved. Truly I did love him, Mag, though he never cared for me. No, he didn't. Men don't pull down the women they love. I know that now. If Tom Dorgan had ever cared for me, he wouldn't have made a thief of me. If he'd cared, the last place on earth he'd have come to, when he knew the detectives would be on this track, would have been just the first place he made for. If he'd cared, he—but it's done, Mag. It's all over. Cheap. That's what he is, this Tom Dorgan. Cheaply bad. A cheap bully, cheap-brained. Remember my wishing he'd have been a ventriloquist? For that man that tried to sell me to Obermuller hasn't sensed enough to be a good scene shifter. Oh. The firm of Dorgan and Olin is dissolved, Mag. The retiring partner has gone into the theatrical business. As for Dorgan, the real one poor fellow—Jolly handsome big Tom Dorgan. He died. Yes, he died, Maggie, and was buried up there in the prison graveyard. A hard lot for a boy, but it's not the worst thing that can happen to him. He might become a man. Such a man is that fellow that sailed away before the mass this morning. End of Chapter 9. CHAPTER X. OF IN THE BISHOP'S CARAGE. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leanne Howlett. IN THE BISHOP'S CARAGE. By Miriam Michelson. CHAPTER X. Where I was, seated in a box, all alone, Miss Nancy Olden, by courtesy of the management, come to listen to the leading lady sing coon songs that I might add her to my collection of take-offs. She's a fat leading lady, very fair and nearly fifty, I guess, but she's got a rollicking husky voice in her fat throat that's sung the dollars down deep into her pockets. They say she's planted them deeper still in the foundations of apartment houses and that now she's the richest roly-poly on the Rialto. Do you know, Maggie Darlin, what I was saying to myself there in the box while I watched the stage and waited for Obermuller? He said he'd drop in later, perhaps. Nancy, I said, I kind of fancy that apartment sort of idea myself. They tell you, Nancy, that when you've got the artistic temperament that that's all you'll ever have, but there's a chance, one in a hundred, for a body to get that temperament mixed with a business instinct. It doesn't often happen, but when it does, the result is a dollars. It may be, Nancy, I surely suspect it is a fact that you've got that marvelous mixture. Your early successes, Miss Olden, and another profession that I needn't name, would encourage the idea that you're not all hard to know head. I think, Nancy, I shall have you mimic the artists during working hours and the businessmen when you're at play. I fancy apartment houses. They appeal to me. We'll call one the Nancy, and another Olden Hall, and another— What'll I call the third apartment, Mr. O? I asked aloud, as I heard the rings on the porterre behind me click. He didn't answer. Without turning my head, I repeated the question, and yet suddenly, before he could have answered, I knew something was wrong. I turned, and in that moment a man took the seat beside me, and another stood facing me, with his back against the porterres. Miss Olden, the man beside me asked. Yes. Nancy Olden, the mimic who entertains at private houses. I nodded. You—you were at Mrs. Paul Gates just a week ago, and you gave your specialties there? Yes. Yes. What is it you want? He was a little man, but very muscular. I could note the play of his muscles even in the slight motion he made as he turned his body so as to get between me and the audience, while he leaned toward me, watching me intently with his small, quick, blue eyes. We don't want to make any scene here, he said very low. We want to do it up as quietly as we can. There might be some mistake, you know, and then you'd be sorry. So should we. I hope you'll be reasonable, and it'll be all the better for you because— What are you talking—what? I looked from him to the other fellow behind us. He leaned a bit farther forward then, and pulling his coat partly open, he showed me a detective's badge, and the other man quickly did the same. I sat back in my chair. The fat star on the stage, with her big mouth and big baby face, was doing a cake walk up and down close to the footlights, yelling the chorus of her song. I'll never mimic that song, Mag, although I can see her and hear it as plain as though I'd listened and watched her all my life. But there's no fun in it for me. I hate the very bars the orchestra plays before she begins to sing. I can't bear even to think of the words. The whole of it is full of horrible things. It smells of the jail. It looks like stripes. It— You're not going to faint, asked the man, moving closer to me. Me? I never fainted in my life. Where is he now, Tom Dorgan? Tom Dorgan? Yes. I was sure I saw him sail, but of course I was mistaken. He has sent you after me, has he? I can hardly believe it of Tom, even—even yet. I don't know anything that connects you with Dorgan. But if he was in with you on this, you'd better remember before you say anything more that it'll all be used against you. The curtain had gone down and gone up again. I was watching the star. She has such a boyish way of nodding her head instead of bowing after she waddles out to the center, and every time she wipes her lips with her lace handkerchief, as though she'd just taken one of the cocktails she makes in the play with all the skill of a bartender, I found myself doing the same thing, wiping my lips with that very same gesture, as though I had a fat, bare forearm like a rolling pin, when all at once a thought came to me, you'd needn't bother, Nancy, it's all up. You won't have any use for it all. Just what is the charge? I asked, turning to the man beside me, stealing a purse containing three hundred dollars from Mrs. Paul Gates' house on the night of April twenty-seventh. What? It was Obermuller. He had pushed the curtains aside. The crashing of the orchestra had prevented our hearing the clatter of the rings. He had pushed by the man standing there, had come in and he had heard. Nance, he cried, I don't believe a word of it. He turned in his quick way to the men. What are your orders? To take her to her flat and search it. Ober came over to me then and took my hand for a minute. It's a pity they don't know about the gray rose diamond, he whispered, helping me on with my jacket. They'd see how silly this little three hundred dollar business is. Brace up, Nance Olden. Oh, mag, mag, to hear a man like that talk to you as though you were his kind, when you have the feel of the coarse prison stripes between your dry, shaking fingers, and the close prison smell is already poisoning your nostrils. I don't see, my voice shook, how you can believe in me. Don't you? He laughed. That's easy. You've got brains, Nance, and the most imbecile thing you could do just now, when your foot is already on the ladder, would be just this, to get off in order to pick up a trinket out of the mud, when there's a fortune up at the top waiting for you. Your people don't do asinine things, and other clever people know that they don't. You're clever, but so am I in my weak small way. Come along, little girl. He pulled my hand in his arm, and we walked out, followed by the two men. Oh, no. It was all very quiet, and looked just like a little theater party that had an early supper engagement. Obermuller nodded to the manager out in the deserted lobby, who stopped us and asked me what I thought of the star. You'll think me mad, Mag. Those fellows with the badges were sure I was, but Obermuller's eyes only twinkled, and the manager's grin grew broad when, catching up the end of my skirt and cakewalking up and down, I sang under my breath that coon song that was trailing over and over through my head. Bravo, bravo, whispered the manager hoarsely, clapping his hands softly. I gave one of those quick, funny, boyish nods the star inside my defects and wiped my lips with my handkerchief. That brought down my house. Even the biggest fellow with the badge giggled recognizingly and then put his hand quickly in front of his mouth and tried to look severe and official. The color had come back to Obermuller's face. It was worth dancing for, that. Be patient, Mag. Let me tell it my way. There wasn't room in the coop waiting out in front for more than two, so Obermuller couldn't come in it. But he put me in. Mag, dear, dear, Mag, he put me in as if I was a lady, not like Gray, a real one. A thing like that counts when two detectives are watching. It counted afterward in the way they treated me. The big man climbed up on the seat with the driver. The blue-eyed fellow got in and sat beside me, closing the door. I'll be out there almost as soon as you are, Obermuller said, standing a moment beside the lowered window. You good fellow, I said, and then trying to laugh, I'll do as much for you some day. He shook his fists laughingly at me and I waved my hand as we drove off. You know, miss, there may be some mistake about this, said the man next to me, and—yes, there may be, in fact there is. I'm sure I'll be very glad if it is a mistake. They do happen, though not often. You spoke of Dorgan. Did I? Yes, Tom Dorgan, who busted out of Sing-Sing the other day. Surely you're mistaken, I said, smiling right into his blue eyes. The Tom Dorgan I mentioned is a sleight-of-hand performer at the vaudeville. Ever see him? No. Clever fellow, you ought to. Perhaps you don't recognize him under that name. On the bills, he's Professor Hofwalt. Stage people have so many names, you know. Yes, so have some other people. I laughed, and he grinned back at me. Now, that's mean of you, I said. I never had but one. It was all I needed. It flashed through me then what a thing like this might do to a name. You know, Mag, every bit of recognition an actress steals from the world is so much capital. It isn't like the old graft when you had to begin new every time you took up a piece of work. And your name, the name the world knows, and it's knowing it makes it worth having like everything. That name is the sum of every scheme you've planned, of every time you've got away with the goods, of every laugh you've lifted, of every bit of cleverness you've thought out and embodied, of everything that's in you, of everything you are. But I didn't dare think long of this. I turned to him. Tell me about this charge, I said. Where was the purse? Whose was it? And why haven't they missed it till after a week? They missed it all right that night, but Mrs. Gates wanted it kept quiet till the servants had been shadowed and it was positively proved that they hadn't got away with it. And then she thought of me. And then she thought of you. I wonder why? Because you were the only person in that room except Mrs. Gates, the lady who lost the purse, Mrs. Ramsey in A? Nothing. Mrs. Ramsey, you said? Yes. Not Mrs. Edward Ramsey of Philadelphia. Oh, you know the name? Oh, yes, I know it. It was printed, you know, and gold lettering on the inside flapping. I don't know. Well, it was and it contained $300, Mrs. Ramsey says. She had slipped it under the fold of the spread at the top of the bed in the room where you took off your things and Mrs. Gates' presents and put them on again when no one else was there. And you mean to tell me that that is all? I raged at him, that every bit of evidence you have to warrant you're treating an innocent girl like, you didn't behave like a very innocent girl, if you'll remember, he said, dryly, when I first came into the box. In fact, if that fellow hadn't just come in then, I believe you'd have confessed the whole job. Taint too late, he added. I didn't answer. I put my head back against the cushions and closed my eyes. I could feel the scrutiny of his blue eyes on my naked face. Your face is so unprotected with the eyes closed, like a fort whose battery is withdrawn. But I was tired. It tires you when you care. A year ago, Mag, this sort of thing, the risk, the nearness to danger, the chances one way or the other, would have intoxicated me. I used to feel as though I was dancing on a volcano and daring it to explode. The more twistings and turnings there were to the labyrinth, the greater glory it was to get out. Maggie, darling, you have before you a mournful spectacle, the degeneration of Nancy Olden. It isn't that she's lost courage. It's only that she used to be able to think of only one thing. And now, what do you suppose it is, Mag, if you know, don't you dare to tell me? When we got to the flat, Obermuller was already there. At the door, I pulled out my key and opened it with a flourish. Won't you come in, gentlemen, and spend the evening? I asked. They followed me in. First to the parlor, the two fellows threw off their coats and searched that through and through. Not a drawer did they miss. Not a bit of furniture did they fail to move. Obermuller and I sat there, dyeing them as they pried about in their shirt sleeves. That trust business has taken the life out of him a blade. All their tricks, all their squeezing, their cheatings, their bossing and bragging and bullying, have got onto his nerves till he looks like a chained bear getting a drubbing. And he swears that they're in a conspiracy to freeze him and a few others like him out. He believes there's actually a paper in existence that would prove it, but this affair of the purse seemed to excite him till he behaved like a bad schoolboy. And I? Well Nance Oldham was never far behind at the cruelty when there was anything going on. We trailed after them and when they'd finished with the bedrooms, yours and mine, I asked the big fellow to come into the kitchen with Mr. O and me while the blue eye detective tackled the dining room and I'd get up a lunch for us all. Mag, you should have seen Fred Obermuller with a big apron on him, dressing the salad while I was making sandwiches. The cruelty taught me how to cook, even if it did teach me other things. You wouldn't have believed that the trust had got him by the throat and was choking the last breath out of him. You wouldn't have believed that our salaries hadn't been paid for three weeks, that our houses were dwindling every night, that— I was thinking about it all there in the back of my head, trying to see a way out of it. You know if there is such an agreement as Obermuller swears there is, it's against the law. While we rattled on, the two of us, like a couple of children on a picnic, when I heard a crash behind me. The salad bowl had slipped from Obermuller's fingers. He stood with his back turned to me, his eyes fixed upon that searching detective. But he wasn't searching any more, Mag. He was standing still as a pointer that scented game. He had moved the lounge out from the wall, and there on the floor, spread open where it had fallen, lay a handsome elephant-skin purse with gold corners. From where I stood, Mag, I could read the plain gold lettering on the dark leather. I didn't have to move. It was plain enough, quite plain. Mrs. Edward Ramsey. Hush, hush, Mag. If you take on so, how can I tell you the rest? Obermuller got in front of me as I started to walk into the dining room. I don't know what his idea was. I don't suppose he does exactly, if it wasn't to spare me the sight of that damned thing. Oh, how I hated it, that purse. I hated it as if it had been something alive that could be glad of what it had done. I wished it was alive that I could tear and rend it and stamp on it and throw it in a fire and drag it out again with burned and bleeding nails to tear it again and again. I wanted to fall on it and hide it, to push it far, far away out of sight, to stamp it down, down into the very bottom of the earth where it could feel the hell it was making for me. But I only stood there, stupidly looking at it, having pushed past Obermuller as though I never wanted to see anything else. And then I heard that blue-eyed fellow's words. Well, he said, pulling on his coat as though he'd done a good day's work. I guess you'd just better come along with me. End of chapter 10.