d been carelessly
left on the open-air stage, and she was now lying upon a sofa in the
manager's room with her limb bandaged and soaked with liniment.

Flo was having troubles, too. A girl who had been selected by the
producer to fall from an aeroplane in mid-air had sent word she was ill
and could not work to-day, and the producer had ordered Flo to prepare
for the part. Indignantly she sought the manager, to file a protest, and
while she waited in the anteroom for an audience, Mr. A. Jones of Sangoa
came in and greeted her with a bow and a smile.

"Good gracious! Where did _you_ come from?" she inquired.

"My hotel. I've just driven over to see Goldstein," he replied.

"You'll have to wait, I'm afraid," she warned him. "The manager is busy
just now. I've been wiggling on this bench half an hour, and haven't seen
him yet--and my business is very important."

"So is mine, Miss Flo," he rejoined, looking at her with an odd
expression. Then, as a stenographer came hurrying from the inner room, he
stopped the girl and said:

"Please take my card to Mr. Goldstein."

"Oh, he won't see anybody now, for he's busy talking with one of our
producers. You'll have to call again," she said flippantly. But even as
she spoke she glanced at the card, started and turned red. "Oh, pardon
me!" she added hastily and fled back to the managerial sanctum.

"That's funny!" muttered Flo, half to herself.

"Yes," he said, laughing, "my cards are charged with electricity, and
they're bound to galvanize anyone in this establishment. Come in, Miss
Flo," he added, as Goldstein rushed out of his office to greet the boy
effusively; "your business takes precedence to mine, you know."

The manager ushered them into his office, a big room with a busy aspect.
At one end were two or three girls industriously thumping typewriters;
McNeil, the producer, was sorting manuscript on Goldstein's own desk; a
young man who served as the manager's private secretary was poring over a
voluminous record-book, wherein were listed all the films ever made by
the manufacturers of the world. On a sofa in a far corner reclined the
injured "star" of the company, Maud Stanton, who--being half asleep at
the moment--did not notice the entrance of her sister and young Jones.

"Sit down, Mr. Jones; pray sit down!" exclaimed Goldstein eagerly,
pointing to his own chair. "Would you like me to clear the room, so that
our conversation may be private?"

"Not yet," replied