At the club Shirley made some necessary disposition of his private matters, for he knew this case would run longer than a day.  From his rooms he sent a note by messenger to his theatrical friend, Dick Holloway, which read simply.

“Dear Holloway:—­The experiment with the movies won the blue ribbon.  I have a new plan on foot.  You can help me in this, as well.  I want you to engage for me a beautiful, clever and daring actress, afraid of nothing under the sun or moon, and absolutely unknown on Broadway.  No amateurs or stage-struck heiresses or manicurists:  you are the one impresario who can fill my bill.  I will call at your office in fifteen minutes, so have the compact sealed by then.  Who finally won the loot, last night?

Your friend, Montague Shirley.”

The manager was forced to go through the note twice, to make sure that his senses were not leaving him.  Then he turned in the chair, toward the unusual young woman who sat in his private office, observing with mingled amusement and curiosity the fleeting expressions upon his face.

“In view of your mission in America, this may interest you,” was his amused comment, as he handed her the missive.  “It is from the most curious man in New York.”

He studied the downcast lashes, as she read the letter.  Hers was a face which had stirred a continent, yet he had never met her until this memorable day.  She might have been twenty-three years old—­and again, might have been three years younger or older.  Rippling red-gold waves of hair separated in the center of her smooth brow to caress with a soft wave on either side the blooming cheeks, whose Nature-grown roses were unusual in this world-weary vicinity of Broadway.  A sweet mouth with a sensuous smile at one corner, and a barely perceptible droop of pathos at the other, lent an indescribable piquance to her dimpled smile.  The blue orbs which raised to his own with a Sphinxian laugh in their azure depths thrilled him—­Holloway, the blase, the hardened theatrical manager, flattered and cajoled by hundreds of beautiful women on the quest of stage success!

Adroitly veiled beneath the silken folds of the clinging gown, redolent with the bizarre artistry of a Parisian atelier, was the shapely suggestion of exquisite physical perfection which did not escape the connoisseur glance of Holloway.

“He is a literary man:  I know that from the small, yet fluent writing, and the cross marks for periods show that he has written for newspapers and corrected his own proofs—­He is unusually definite in what he desires and accustomed to having his imperious way about most things.  In this case, he is easily pleased—­merely perfection is his desire.”

“Shirley is generally prompt, and is apt to breeze in here any second now, with his two hundred pounds and six feet of brawn and ginger.  I wonder—­”

“Why do you suppose such a paragon is desired by your friend?  Who is he?  What is he like, not an ordinary actor—­” and the wondrous eyes darkened with a curious thought.