There I was seated in a box all alone--Miss Nancy Olden, by courtesy of
the management, come to listen to the leading lady sing coon-songs,
that I might add her to my collection of take-offs.
She's a fat leading lady, very fair and nearly fifty, I guess. But
she's got a rollicking, husky voice in her fat throat that's sung the
dollars down deep into her pockets. They say she's planted them deeper
still--in the foundations of apartment houses--and that now she's the
richest roly-poly on the Rialto.
Do you know, Maggie darlin', what I was saying to myself there in the
box, while I watched the stage and waited for Obermuller? He said he'd
drop in later, perhaps.
"Nance," I said, "I kind of fancy that apartment sort of idea myself.
They tell you, Nancy, that when you've got the artistic temperament,
that that's all you'll ever have. But there's a chance--one in a
hundred--for a body to get that temperament mixed with a business
instinct. It doesn't often happen. But when it does the result
is--dollars. It may be, Nance--I shrewdly suspect it is a fact that
you've got that marvelous mixture. Your early successes, Miss Olden,
in another profession that I needn't name, would encourage the idea
that you're not all heart and no head. I think, Nance, I shall have
you mimic the artists during working hours and the business men when
you're at play. I fancy apartment houses. They appeal to me. We'll
call one 'The Nancy' and another 'Olden Hall' and another..."
"What'll I call the third apartment house, Mr. O?" I asked aloud, as I
heard the rings on the portiere behind me click.
He didn't answer.
Without turning my head I repeated the question. And
yet--suddenly--before he could have answered, I knew something was
wrong.
I turned. And in that moment a man took the seat beside me and another
stood facing me, with his back against the portieres.
"Miss Olden?" the man beside me asked.
"Yes."
"Nance Olden, the mimic, who entertains at private houses?"