n longer than a day. From
his rooms he sent a note by messenger to his theatrical friend, Dick
Holloway, which read simply.

"Dear Holloway:--The experiment with the movies won the blue ribbon. I
have a new plan on foot. You can help me in this, as well. I want you to
engage for me a beautiful, clever and daring actress, afraid of nothing
under the sun or moon, and absolutely unknown on Broadway. No amateurs
or stage-struck heiresses or manicurists: you are the one impresario who
can fill my bill. I will call at your office in fifteen minutes, so have
the compact sealed by then. Who finally won the loot, last night?

Your friend, Montague Shirley."

The manager was forced to go through the note twice, to make sure that
his senses were not leaving him. Then he turned in the chair, toward
the unusual young woman who sat in his private office, observing with
mingled amusement and curiosity the fleeting expressions upon his face.

"In view of your mission in America, this may interest you," was his
amused comment, as he handed her the missive. "It is from the most
curious man in New York."

He studied the downcast lashes, as she read the letter. Hers was a
face which had stirred a continent, yet he had never met her until this
memorable day. She might have been twenty-three years old--and again,
might have been three years younger or older. Rippling red-gold waves
of hair separated in the center of her smooth brow to caress with a soft
wave on either side the blooming cheeks, whose Nature-grown roses were
unusual in this world-weary vicinity of Broadway. A sweet mouth with a
sensuous smile at one corner, and a barely perceptible droop of pathos
at the other, lent an indescribable piquance to her dimpled smile. The
blue orbs which raised to his own with a Sphinxian laugh in their
azure depths thrilled him--Holloway, the blase, the hardened theatrical
manager, flattered and cajoled by hundreds of beautiful women on the
quest of stage success!

Adroitly veiled beneath the silken folds of the clinging gown, redolent
with the bizarre artistry of a Parisian atelier, was the shapely
suggestion of exquisite physical perfection which did not escape the
connoisseur glance of Holloway.

"He is a literary man: I know that from the small, yet fluent writing,
and the cross marks for periods show that he has written for newspapers
and corrected his own proofs--He is unusually definite in what he
desire