istically of her goodness of heart, interviewed
her on every possible pretext and published portraits of her by the
score. Society soon followed suit. The best people of the town took her
up and the women gushed over her. She was such a young little thing,
they said, so ingenuous and interesting, so refined, so different from
most actresses. Sorry that she should be all alone in a strange place,
exposed to the temptations of a big city, they took her under their
wing, and invited her to their homes. One lady, particularly, was most
cordial in her invitation. Her name was Mrs. Williams, and Laura met
her at a church picnic. The wife of a millionaire cattle king, she
owned a handsome house in Denver and a beautiful country home near
Colorado Springs. Mrs. Williams took a great fancy to the demure young
actress and declined to say good-bye in Denver until Laura had promised
to go and spend a week with her at her country ranch.

"It's a lovely spot, dear," she said. "I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself.
My house is perched up on the side of Ute Pass, and overlooks the whole
Colorado Canon, two thousand feet below. It is a wonderful spectacle.
You must come. I won't take a refusal."

Laura promised, willing enough. She would be glad of the rest after her
weeks of hard work.

Of John Madison she had seen a great deal. Following her old tactics,
she had started out to fascinate the tall newspaper man, expecting to
find him an easy victim. For once, however, she found that she had met
her match. Directly she arrived in Denver she sent him her card, and he
called at the hotel, his manner courteous, but distinctly cold. He had
not forgotten, however, the promise made in New York, and he offered to
give her such help as he could. Aware of his close connection with the
local newspapers, she was glad to accept his offer to act as her press
representative. She even offered to pay him, but he flatly declined,
and the covert smile that accompanied the refusal made her angry.

"Why do you refuse?" she demanded. "Are you so rich?"

"I'm dead broke," he answered dryly. "But you see, I'm a queer
fellow--there are certain things I can't do--one of them is to take
money from a woman."

On another occasion, when she went a little out of her way to show him
attention he said, with brutal candor:

"Don't waste your time on me. I'm only a poor devil of a newspaper man.
There are plenty of fatter fowl to pluck. Denver's full of softheads
with