got something of
your own, though?" It wasn't an ordinary question, it was an agonized
appeal.

"Only a separate trust fund John set up for me before he died--fifty
thousand dollars--I just get the interest--sixty dollars a week."

Mr. Mix sat down hard, and his breathing was laboured.
"Great--Jumping--Jehosophat!" He wet his lips, repeatedly.
"Mirabelle--listen--if they modify that ordinance--so Sunday shows are
legal again--those other fellows'll want to buy back--their
contracts--from Henry. There's only a few weeks--but if Henry only
raised a thousand dollars--he'd be so close to his ten thousand--" He
reached for a glass of water and drank it, gulping. "Henry'll see
_that_--he's got his eyes open every minute.... We've got to cut
inside of him. Prevent those fellows from buying their Sunday leases
back. Get hold of the man that's the boss of the Exhibitors'
Association. Tell him we'll buy a _second_ option to lease the whole
string of theatres for six weeks, subject to our getting a release
from Henry. As if the League wanted 'em or something. Offer a big
enough rent so they'll _have_ to accept--so they'd get more out of
_us_ than if they opened up. Then they _can't_ buy back from
Henry--and he's over a thousand short. I _know_ he is. And if you
don't do it--" His gesture was dramatic.

Mirabelle's expression, as she wiped her eyes, was a pot-pourri of
sentiments. "Humph! Can't say I like the idea much, kind of too
tricky."

Mr. Mix played his last card. "Don't the ends justify the means? You
and I'd be philanthropists, and _Henry_--" He watched her quiver. "And
with a fund such as _we'd_ have, we'd begin all over again, and next
time we'd win, wouldn't we?"

"Theodore. I've got fifty one hundred in the bank. It has to last
'till August. If you took five thousand _more_--"

He snatched at the straw. "You bet I'll take it. It's for _insurance_.
And you telephone to Masonic Hall and see what's left of the three
grand you wired 'em from--"

"The what?"

"The money you sent from Chicago. Get what's left. Soon as I find out,
I'll hustle down town and get busy."

Mirabelle wavered. "The Council's going to--"

Mr. Mix gave her a look which was a throwback to his cave-man
ancestry. "To _hell_ with the Council!"

For an instant, her whole being rebelled, and then she saw his eyes.
"A-all right," she faltered. "I--I'll telephone!"

Inside of five minutes, she told him that of her loan, there was
nothing le