“About a month ago.”

“Well, didn’t you see the Revue?”

“The last one?  Certainly.”

“That’s where I shone—­second girl on the right in the chorus, and I was in the eccentric dance with Joe Steams; some hit—­what?”

“Yes, I remember now; they called you the Red Fairy—­because of your ruby ring.  What in the world ever brought you out here?”

Celeste laughed, a cloud of smoke curling gracefully above her blonde hair.

“Some joke, isn’t it?  Well, it’s no engagement at the Good Luck Dance Hall yonder, you can bet on that.  The fact is I’ve quit the business, and am going to take a flier in mining.”

“Mining?  That sounds like money in these days.  They tell me there is no placer-mining any longer, and that it requires a fortune to develop.  I wouldn’t suppose a chorus girl——­”

“Oh, pshaw!” and Miss La Rue leaned forward, a bright glow on each cheek.  “There are more ways of making money in New York than drawing a salary.  Still, that wasn’t so bad.  I pulled down fifty a week, but of course that was only a drop in the bucket.  I don’t mind telling you, but all a good-looking girl needs is a chance before the public—­there’s plenty of rich fools in the world yet.  I’ve caught on to a few things in the last five years.  It pays better to be Celeste La Rue than it ever did to be Sadie Capley.  Do you get me?”

Miss Donovan nodded.  Her acquaintance with New York fast life supplied all necessary details, and it was quite evident this girl had no sense of shame.  Instead she was rather proud of the success she had achieved.

“I imagine you are right,” she admitted pleasantly.  “So you found a backer?  A mining man?”

“Not on your life.  None of your wild west for me.  As soon as some business is straightened out here, it’s back to Broadway.”

“Who is it?” ventured the other cautiously.  “Mr. Beaton?”

“Ned Beaton!” Miss La Rue’s voice rose to a shriek.  “Oh, Lord!  I should say not!  Why that fellow never had fifty dollars of his own at one time in his life.  You know Beaton, don’t you?”

“Well, hardly that.  We have conversed at the table down-stairs.”

“I suppose any sort of a man in a decent suit of clothes looks good enough to talk to out here.  But don’t let Beaton fool you.  He’s only a tin-horn sport.”

“Then it is the other?”

“Sure; he’s the real thing.  Not much to look at, maybe, but he fairly oozes the long green.  He’s a lawyer.”

“Oh, indeed,” and Miss Donovan’s eyes darkened.  She was interested, now feeling herself on the verge of discovery.  “From New York?”

“Sure, maybe you’ve heard of him?  He knew you as soon as Beaton mentioned your name; he’s Patrick Enright of Enright and Dougherty.”

Miss Donovan’s fingers gripped hard on the footboard of the bed, and her teeth clinched to keep back a sudden exclamation of surprise.  This was more than she had bargained for, yet the other woman, coolly watching, in spite of her apparent flippancy, observed no change in the girl’s manner.  Apparently the disclosure meant little.