“It is the hardest thing in the world to disprove such a story, as Dan Leland and I discovered.  We managed to worry down the girl’s address through a taxi-cab driver who got next to Stein’s chauffeur.  She had an apartment in a decent-enough house on Waverly Place.  Nobody ever came to see her but Stein, her sisters, and a little Italian girl from whom we got the story.

“The counterfeit’s name was Ruby Mohr.  She worked in a shirtwaist factory, and this Italian girl, Margarita, was her chum.  Stein came to the factory when he was hunting for living models for his new department store.  He looked the girls over, and picked Ruby out from several hundred.  He had her call at his office after business hours, tried her out in cloaks and evening gowns, and offered her a position.  She never, however, appeared as a model in the Sixth Avenue store.  Her likeness to the newly arrived prima donna suggested to Stein another act in the play he was always putting on.  He gave two of her sisters positions as saleswomen, but Ruby he established in an apartment on Waverly Place.

“To the outside world Stein became more mysterious in his behaviour than ever.  He dropped his Bohemian friends.  No more suppers and theatre-parties.  Whenever Kitty sang, he was in his box at the Manhattan, usually alone, but not always.  Sometimes he took two or three good customers, large buyers from St. Louis or Kansas City.  His coat factory is still the biggest earner of his properties.  I’ve seen him there with these buyers, and they carried themselves as if they were being let in on something; took possession of the box with a proprietory air, smiled and applauded and looked wise as if each and every one of them were friends of Kitty Ayrshire.  While they buzzed and trained their field-glasses on the prima donna, Stein was impassive and silent.  I don’t imagine he even told many lies.  He is the most insinuating cuss, anyhow.  He probably dropped his voice or lifted his eyebrows when he invited them, and let their own eager imaginations do the rest.  But what tales they took back to their provincial capitals!

“Sometimes, before they left New York, they were lucky enough to see Kitty dining with their clever garment man at some restaurant, her back to the curious crowd, her face half concealed by a veil or a fur collar.  Those people are like children; nothing that is true or probable interests them.  They want the old, gaudy lies, told always in the same way.  Siegmund Stein and Kitty Ayrshire—­a story like that, once launched, is repeated unchallenged for years among New York factory sports.  In St. Paul, St. Jo, Sioux City, Council Bluffs, there used to be clothing stores where a photograph of Kitty Ayrshire hung in the fitting-room or over the proprietor’s desk.