you were," said he. "They tell me those
fellows out there have shocking manners."

"Have you time to see me now? I've come to apply for a position in
musical comedy."

"You have not been on the stage, Miss--"

"Gower. Mildred Gower. I've decided to use my own name."

"I know you have not been on the stage."

"Except as an amateur--and not even that for several years. But I've
been working at my voice."

Crossley was studying her, as she stood talking--she had refused the
chair. He was more than favorably impressed. But the deciding element
was not Mildred's excellent figure or her charm of manner or her sweet
and lovely face. It was superstition. Just at that time Crossley had
been abruptly deserted by Estelle Howard; instead of going on with the
rehearsals of "The Full Moon," in which she was to be starred, she had
rushed away to Europe with a violinist with whom she had fallen in love
at the first rehearsal. Crossley was looking about for someone to take
her place. He had been entrenched in those offices for nearly five
years; in all that time not a single soul of the desperate crowds that
dogged him had broken through his guard. Crossley was as superstitious
as was everyone else who has to do with the stage.

"What kind of a voice?" asked he.

"Lyric soprano."

"You have music there. What?"

"'Batti Batti' and a little song in English--'The Rose and the Bee.'"

Crossley forgot his manners, turned his back squarely upon her, thrust
his hands deep into his trousers pockets, and stared out through the
window. He presently wheeled round. She would not have thought his
eyes could be so keen. Said he: "You were studying for grand opera?"

"Yes."

"Why do you drop it and take up this?"

"No money," replied she. "I've got to make my living at once."

"Well, let's see. Come with me, please."

They went out by a door into the hall, went back to the rear of the
building, in at an iron door, down a flight of steep iron skeleton
steps dimly lighted. Mildred had often been behind the scenes in her
amateur theatrical days; but even if she had not, she would have known
where she was. Crossley called, "Moldini! Moldini!"

The name was caught up by other voices and repeated again and again,
more and more remotely. A moment, and a small dark man with a
superabundance of greasy dark hair appeared. "Miss Gower," said
Crossley, "this is Signor Moldini. He will play your accompaniments."
Then to