“I wish to see Mr. Cruxhall for a moment, privately,” she said.  “I shall not detain him for more than a minute.  My name is Franklin—­Miss Beatrice Franklin.”

The young man’s lips seemed about to shape themselves into a whistle, but something in the girl’s face made him change his mind.

“I guess the boss is in,” he admitted.  “He’s just got back from a big meeting, but I am not sure about his seeing any one to-day.  However, I’ll tell him that you’re here.”

He disappeared into an inner room.  Presently he came out again and held the door open.

“Will you walk right in, Miss Franklin?” he invited.

Beatrice went in bravely enough, but her knees began to tremble when she found herself in the presence of the man she had come to visit.  Mr. Anthony Cruxhall was not a pleasant-looking person.  His cheeks were fat and puffy, he wore a diamond ring upon the finger of his toowhite hand, and a diamond pin in his somewhat flashily arranged necktie.  He was smoking a black cigar, which he omitted to remove from between his teeth as he welcomed his visitor.

“So you’ve come to see me at last, little Miss Beatrice!” he said, with a particularly unpleasant smile.  “Come and sit down here by the side of me.  That’s right, eh?  Now what can I do for you?”

Beatrice was trembling all over.  The man’s eyes were hateful, his smile was hideous.

“I have not a cent in the world, Mr. Cruxhall,” she faltered, “I cannot get an engagement, I have been turned out of my rooms, and I am hungry.  My father always told me that you would be a friend if at any time it happened that I needed help.  I am very sorry to have to come and beg, yet that is what I am doing.  Will you lend or give me ten or twenty dollars, so that I can go on for a little longer?  Or will you help me to get a place among some of your theatrical people? "

Mr. Cruxhall puffed steadily at his cigar for a moment, and leaning back in his chair thrust his hand into his trousers’ pocket.

“So bad as that, is it?” he remarked.  “So bad as that, eh?”

“It is very bad indeed,” she answered, looking at him quietly, “or you know that I should not have come to you.”

Mr. Cruxhall smiled.

“I remember the last time we talked together,” he said, “we didn’t get on very well.  Too high and mighty in those days, weren’t you, Miss Beatrice?  Wouldn’t have anything to say to a bad lot like Anthony Cruxhall.  You’re having to come to it, eh?”

She began to tremble again, but she held herself in.

“I must live,” she murmured.  “Give me a little money and let me go away.”

He laughed.

“Oh, I’ll do better than that for you,” he answered, thrusting his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drawing out a pile of dollar bills.  “Let’s look at you.  Gee whiz!  Yes, you’re shabby, aren’t you?  Take this,” he went on, slamming some notes down before her.  “Go and get yourself a new frock and a hat fit to wear, and meet me at the Madison Square roof garden at eight o’clock.  We’ll have some dinner and I guess we can fix matters up.”