While Geraldine wrote this, Frederic Morganstein made his way laboriously, with the aid of a crutch, around to the box.  “How do do, Miss Atkins,” he said.  “Hello, Daniels!  Well, Mr. Banks, how are you?  Greatest Carmen ever sung in this theater, isn’t it?  Now, keep your seat.  I find it easier to stand.  Just came for a minute to be presented to—­your wife.”

His venture carried.  The little man, rising, said with conscious pride:  “Mrs. Banks, allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Morganstein.  He’s the man that holds the option on the Annabel.  And this is Miss Purdy, Mr. Morganstein; Miss Lucile Purdy of Sedgewick-Wilson’s.  I see you know the rest of the bunch.”

“I guess it’s up to me to apologize, Mrs. Banks,” said Frederic, heavily humorous.  “I wouldn’t believe my sister, Mrs. Feversham, when she told me there were some smart women in those Alaska towns.”  He paused, laughing, while his glance moved from Annabel’s ironical mouth to her superb shoulders and rested on the nugget chain; then he said:  “From that interview of yours in tonight’s Press, Mr. Banks, there isn’t much the country can’t produce.”

“Likely not,” responded the little man quickly.  “But my wife was an Oregon girl.  We were engaged, my, yes, long before I saw Alaska.  And lately she’s been living around Hesperides Vale.  She’s got some fine orchard property over there, in her own right.”

“Is that so?” Frederic’s speculative look returned to Annabel’s face.  “Hesperides Vale.  That’s in the new reclamation country, east of the mountains, isn’t it?  I was intending to motor through that neighborhood when this accident stopped me and put an end to the trip.  They are turning out some fine apples in that valley, I understand.  But it’s curtain time.  Awfully glad I’ve met you; see you again.  Lend me your shoulder, will you, Daniels—­around to my box?”

While they were crossing the foyer, he said:  “That enlargement came out fine; you must run up to my office, while it’s there to-morrow, to see it.  And that was a great write-up you gave Lucky Banks.  It was yours, wasn’t it?  Thought so.  Bought a hundred copies.  Mrs. Feversham is going to take ’em east to distribute in Washington.  Double blue-pencilled one, ’specially for the President.”

Jimmie smiled, blushing.  “That’s more than I deserve, but I’m afraid, even if it reaches his hands, he won’t take the time to read it.”

“You leave that to Mrs. Feversham,” replied Morganstein.  “Saw that little scoop, too, about Tisdale.  He’s the closest oyster on record.”

“The trouble was,” said Jimmie wisely, “he started that Indian story and nobody thought to interrupt with more coal questions.”

“You mean he told that yarn purposely to head us off?”

“That’s the way it seemed to me afterwards.  He spun it out, you know; it lasted to Bremerton, where I got off.  But it was interesting; the best I ever heard, and I took it all down, word for word.  It was little use, though.  The chief gave one look at my bunch of copy and warned me, for the last time, the paper wasn’t publishing any novels.  What I had gone aboard the Aquila for was to write up her equipment and, incidentally, to pick up Hollis Tisdale’s views on Alaska coal.”