XX

The judge and his wife were true music-lovers and didn't attend the

opera for social reasons. Nevertheless, they knew, seemingly, every one

of importance in the artistic, financial, professional, and social

world. During the entr'actes, the judge pointed out to Clancy persons

with whom he was acquainted. Ordinarily, Clancy would have been thrilled

at the mere sight of the demi-gods and goddesses. To-night, they left

her cold. Yet, out of courtesy, she professed interest.

"And there's my little friend Darcy," she heard the judge say.

She roused herself from abstraction, an abstraction in which she was

mentally reviewing the acting and singing of the superb Farrar.

"Who is he?" she asked.

The judge smiled.

"Munitions. Used to live in Pennsylvania. Now he dwelleth in the Land of

Easy Come."

For a second, her thoughts far away, Clancy did not get the implication.

Then she replied.

"But I thought that the munitions millionaires made so much that they

found it hard to get rid of it."

"This is a wonderful town, Miss Deane. It affords opportunity for

everyone and everything. No man ever made money so fast that New York

couldn't take it away from him. If the ordinary methods are not

sufficient, some brilliant New Yorker will invent something new. And

they're inventing them for Darcy--and ten thousand other Darcys, too."

Clancy stared at the squat little millionaire a few seats away.

"He doesn't look very brilliant," she announced.

"He isn't," said the judge.

"But he's worth millions," protested Clancy.

"That doesn't prove brilliance. It proves knack and tenacity, that's

all," said her host. "Some of the most brilliant men I know are paupers;

some of the most stupid are millionaires."

"And vice versa?" suggested Clancy.

The judge shrugged.

"The brilliant millionaires are wealthy despite their brilliance. My

child, money was never so easy to make--or so easy to spend. And those

who make it are spending it."

"But isn't every one spending, not only the millionaires?" demanded

Clancy.

"It's the fashion," said the judge. "But fashions change. I'm not

worried about America."

The curtain rose, cutting short Walbrough's disquisition. But, for a

moment, Clancy pondered on what he had said. "The Land of Easy Come."

The people that she had met, the moving-picture millionaires--theirs had

come easily-- Would it go as easily? Even David Randall, worth

approximately half a million before his thirtieth birthday--she'd read

enough to know that brokers went bankrupt over-night. The hotels that

she knew were crowded almost beyond capacity with people who were

willing to pay any price for any sort of accommodation. The outrageous

prices charged--and paid--in the restaurants. The gorgeous motor-cars.

The marvelous costly clothing that the women wore. Some one must produce

these luxuries. Who were paying for them? Surely not persons who had

toiled and sweated to amass a few dollars. Easy come! Her own little

nest-egg, bequeathed to her by a distant relative--it had come easily;

it had gone as easily. Of course, she hadn't spent it, but--it was gone.

But she was too young to philosophize; she forgot herself in the

performance.

She was throbbing with gratitude to the Walbroughs as, the opera over,

they slowly made their way through the chattering thousands toward the

lobby. They had given her the most wonderful evening of her life.

She was about to say something to this effect when some one accosted the

judge. For the moment, he was separated from the two women, and verbal

expression of Clancy's feelings was postponed. For when the judge joined

them, he was accompanied by a man whose mop of hair would have rendered

him noticeable without the fading bruise upon his face. It was Zenda!

His recognition was as quick as Clancy's. His dreamy brown eyes--one of

them still discolored--lighted keenly. But he had been an actor before

he had become one of the most famous directors in Screendom. He held out

his hand quite casually.

"Hello, Florine!" he said.

Walbrough stared from one to the other.

"You know each other? 'Florine?'"

"A name," said Clancy quickly, "that I called myself when--when I hoped

to get work upon the screen."

She breathed deeply. Of course, Judge Walbrough and Zenda didn't know

that a woman named Florine Ladue was wanted for Beiner's murder; but

still----

"'On the screen?' That's funny," said the judge. "Sophie Carey told us

that you were thinking of stenography until she put you in touch with

Sally Henderson. Huh! No fool like an old fool! I was thinking I would

put a new idea in your head, and you have it already. Darcy stopped me

and introduced his friend Mr. Zenda, and I immediately thought that a

girl like you with your beauty--" He interrupted himself a moment while

he presented Zenda to his wife. Then he turned to Clancy. "Couldn't you

get work?" he asked, abruptly.

They were on the sidewalk now, and the starter was signaling, by

electrically lighted numbers, for the judge's car. It was a clear,

crisp, wonderful night, and the stars vied with the lights of Broadway.

Clancy looked up and down the street. She had no intention of running

away. She'd tried to reach Zenda to-day, and had been told that he was

too ill to receive visitors. Nevertheless, the impulse to flee was

roused in her again. Then, listening to reason, she conquered it.

She answered the judge.

"'Get work?' I didn't try very long."

"And she didn't come to me," said Zenda. He put into his words a meaning

that the Walbroughs could not suspect. Clancy got it.

"Oh, but I did!" she said. "I've tried to get you on the telephone.

Central wouldn't give me your number. I wrote you a letter in care of

Zenda Films. Your partner, Mr. Grannis, opened it. And to-day I called

at your apartment and was told that you were ill."

Zenda's face, which had been stern, softened.

"Is that so?" he asked.

The judge, a trifle mystified, broke into the conversation.

"Well, she seems to have proved that she didn't neglect you, Mr. Zenda.

Don't see why she should go to such pains, unless"--and he

laughed--"Miss Deane wants to prove that she played fair;--didn't give

any one else a prior opportunity to make a million dollars out of her

pretty face."

"Miss Deane can easily prove that she is playing fair," said Zenda.

"I want to," said Clancy quickly.

Walbrough was a clever man. It was pardonable in him not to have

suspected earlier that there was some byplay of talk to whose meaning he

was not privy. But now he knew that there was some meaning not

understood by him in this talk.

"Here's the car," he said. "Suppose you ride home with us, Zenda?"

"I have some friends. If you'll wait a moment--" And Zenda was off.

In silence, Clancy entered the judge's limousine. Then Mrs. Walbrough,

settling herself comfortably, suddenly patted the girl upon the hand.

She was a keen woman, was Mrs. Walbrough; she sensed that something was

troubling Clancy. And the judge cleared his throat portentously.

"Miss Deane," he said, "I don't know your relation to Mr. Zenda. But, if

you'd care to consider yourself my client----"

"Thank you," said Clancy.

Then Zenda reappeared. He crowded himself into the car.

"I just telephoned my apartment, Miss Deane. The door-man went on at

noon and stays until midnight. He says that a young lady answering your

description called on me to-day."

"Did you need verification, Zenda?" asked the judge angrily.

Zenda shrugged.

"In a matter involving a hundred thousand and more, corroboration does

no harm, and my obtaining it should not be offensive to Miss Deane."

"Oh, it isn't, it isn't!" said Clancy tremulously.

The judge's eyes narrowed.

"I must inform you, Zenda, that Miss Deane is my client," he said.

Zenda bowed.

"I couldn't wish a better adviser for Miss Deane. Farrar was in

excellent voice to-night, didn't you think?"

No one challenged the change of subject, and until they were settled in

the Walbrough library, the opera was the only subject of discussion.

But, once there, Zenda came to business with celerity.

"Judge Walbrough, I have been swindled in a poker game, in a series of

poker games, out of thousands of dollars. Last Monday night, we caught

the man who did the cheating. There was trouble. Miss Deane was present

at the game, in my apartment. She came as the guest of one Ike Weber.

She disappeared during the quarrel. It has been my assumption that she

was present as the aide of Weber. At the Star Club, on Tuesday, I

stated, to associates of Weber, that the man was a swindler. Yesterday,

I was told that he intended bringing suit against me. So I have denied

myself to all possible process-servers on the plea of illness."

"Why? If the man is a swindler----"

But Zenda cut the judge short.

"I can't prove it. I don't want scandal. Suit would precipitate it. If I

could get proof against Weber, I'd confront him with it, and the suit

would be dropped. Also, I would recover my money. Not that that matters

much. Miss Deane, why did you come to see me?"

Clancy drew a long breath; then she began to talk. Carefully avoiding

all reference to Morris Beiner, she told everything else that had to do

with Zenda, Weber, and Grannis. The judge spoke first after she ceased.

"I don't get Grannis's connection."

"I do!" snapped Zenda. "He's been trying to get control of the company--

I'm not nearly so rich as people think I am. The company has a contract

with me for a term of years at no very huge salary. I expected to make

my money out of the profits. But now we've quarreled over business

methods. If he could get me entirely out, use my name--the company has

the right to--increase the capitalization, and sell stock to the public

on the strength of my reputation, Grannis would become rich more quickly

that way than by making pictures. And the quicker Grannis broke me, so

that I'd have to sell my stock--every little bit helps. If Weber won a

million from me----"

"'A million!'" gasped Walbrough.

Zenda's voice was self-contemptuous.

"Easy come, Judge," he said. "I'm an easy mark. Weber had a good start

toward the million, would have had a better if it hadn't been for Mrs.

Zenda."

"It's an incredible story!" cried the judge.

"What's incredible? That I should gamble, and that some one should

swindle me? What's strange about that in this town, Judge? In any town,

for that matter?"

Clancy, eyes half closed, hardly heard what they were saying. How easy

it would be to confess! For, what had she to confess? Nothing whatever

of wrong-doing. Then why had it not been easy to call on Zenda the first

thing on Tuesday morning and tell him of Fay Marston's involuntary

confession? Because she had been afraid of scandal? Her lips curled in

contempt for herself. To avoid doing right because of possible scandal?

She was overly harsh with herself. Yet, to balance too much harshness,

she became too lenient in her self-judgment when it occurred to her that

only fear of scandal kept her from confessing to Vandervent that she

_was_ Florine Ladue. That was a _different_ sort of scandal; also, there

was danger in it. No; she could not blame herself because she kept that

matter quiet.

"And you'd advise me to keep it out of the courts, Judge?" she heard

Zenda asking.

"If possible," replied the judge. "It will do you no good. The mere

threat of it will be enough. Offer Grannis a fair price for his stock,

deducting, of course, from that price whatever have been your poker

losses to Weber. For the two are partners, unquestionably. Tell Grannis

that, if he doesn't accept your offer, you will prosecute both Weber and

himself for swindling. That's much the better way."

"I agree," said Zenda. "But I haven't the cash to swing Grannis's

stock."

"Plenty of people have," said the judge. "In fact, I have a client who

will take that stock."

"It's a bet," said Zenda. He rose briskly. "Can't thank you enough, Miss

Deane. Will you be at the offices of Zenda Films to-morrow morning with

Judge Walbrough?"

He turned to the judge and arranged the hour, then turned back to

Clancy.

"And as soon as _that's_ settled, we'll make a test of you, Miss Deane."

He was gone in another moment. The judge stared at Clancy.

"Little girl," he said, "if it weren't so late, I'd give you a long,

long lecture."

"You'll lecture her no lectures, Tom Walbrough," said his wife firmly.

"Hasn't she put you in the way of an investment for a client? You'll

thank her, instead of scolding her."

The judge laughed.

"Right enough! But I _will_ give her advice."

"And I'll follow it," said Clancy earnestly.

And she did. But not to the extent of doing as age, or proven

experience, or ability advised her. She would always act upon the

impulse, would follow her own way--a way which, because she was the

lovely Clancy Deane, might honestly be termed her own sweet way.