who had felt that he was sitting on top of the
world, had been unceremoniously shot off into space.

His creditors surrounded him, (and because they were small creditors
they were inclined to be nasty), he owed money to his New York
correspondents, whose letters were becoming peremptory, and his
brokerage business was pounding against the rocks. Quietly, overnight
he had located a purchaser for the Orpheum, and as soon as Henry's
name had been safe on the dotted line, Mr. Mix would have been
financed for many months ahead. And then came Henry--and Henry, who
had been cast for the part of the lamb, had suddenly become as
obstinate as a donkey. Mr. Mix, gazing at that agreement, was swept by
impotent rage at Henry, and he took the document and ripped it
savagely across and across, and crumpled it in both his hands, and
jammed it into his scrap-basket.

For the moment, he subordinated his personal problems to his wrath at
Henry. He charged Henry with full responsibility for this present
crisis; for if Henry had simply scribbled his signature, Mr. Mix would
have made a good deal of money. It never occurred to him that in the
same transaction, Henry would have changed places with Mr. Mix. That
was Henry's look-out. And damn him, he had _looked_!

"I'm going to get him for that," said Mr. Mix, half-aloud. "I'm going
to get him, and get him good. Jockeying me into a pocket! Conceited
young ass! And I'd have been square with the world, and paid off that
infernal note, and had _four ... thousand ... dollars_ left over." His
lips made a straight line. "And he'd have brought fifty thousand
dollars' worth of business into this office--he'd have _had_ to--he'd
have had to hold up his friends--to protect his ante. Yes, sir, I'm
going to get him _good_."

Mr. Mix sat up, and emitted a short, mirthless laugh. He frowned
thoughtfully: and then, after a little search, he examined the
pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and skimmed through the pages
until he came to the paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of the
Sunday ordinances ... hm!... present ordinance seems to prohibit
Sunday theatrical performances of all kinds, but city administrations
have always been lax. Want the law on the books, don't dare to repeal
it, but don't care to enforce it.

Mr. Mix sat back and pondered. He knew enough about the motion-picture
business to realize that the Sunday performances made up the backbone
of the week. He knew enough about the Orp